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SELECTIONS FROM PLATO 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF SOCRATES 



THE APOLOGY THE PH^EDO 



From the Translation by Taylor, with Introduction and 
Notes by 

HARRY T. NIGHTINGALE 

INSTRUCTOR IN HISTORY AND ENGLISH, SOUTH DIVISION HIGH SCHOOL 
CHICAGO 




TWO GUf 1W ^ w 

CHICAGO 



c;VED 



AINSWORTH & COMPANY I y^X*^ \ C / 



1897 






THE LIBRARY 
jOf CONGRESS |? 

WASHINGTON jj 



Copyright, 1897, by 
Ainsworth & Company 



♦ 

lpress of 

1R. 1R. /FDcCabe & Co, 

Cbicago 



f/e 



INTRODUCTION TO THE APOLOGY. 



THE fifth century before Christ was the first truly 
glorious period of Grecian History. It was a glori- 
ous period for the world, and glorious for the world be- 
cause glorious for Greece. The despots of Persia — that 
ancient abode of extreme, sickening conservatism — had 
made great but futile efforts to strangle the new and 
vigorous young child of liberty. To the Asiatic East, 
Greece was an ill-shapen child, and, according to custom, 
as much Grecian as barbarian, the Persian felt she should 
be destroyed. He would not run the risk of allowing her 
merely to be exposed to death on some Mt. Ida of com- 
mercial and military isolation ; he would be positive. 
Greece exposed, alone, free, would surely flourish. She 
must be murdered directly. 

We all know the stories of Marathon and Thermo- 
pylae, of Salamis and Plataea. We know how those free- 
born men of Greece refused to bow to the overlordship of 
their eastern enemies, refused adoption at the hands of 
Persia, refused the enervating life and certain death that 
was planned for them. When, about 460 B. C, Greece 
had safely emerged from the conflict with despotism and 
was well embarked on her great career of literary, 
philosophical and political activity, the renowned city 

3 



4 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

of Athens, the ttoAi? A9r,vae that Xerxes had once burned, 
was rapidly becoming the greatest city in the world. Its 
streets were filled with men of thought and action. Its 
academies, its schools, its public meetings, its conclaves, 
its banquets — in short, its public and private, political, 
literary and social gatherings were all attended by the 
most energetic men of the then world. Minds quickened 
by the free thought of pastoral Greece, bodies strength- 
ened and invigorated by the free atmosphere of Grecian 
liberty, came together for mutual benefit and general pro- 
gress. There were statesmen like Pericles, who formed 
and executed great policies of public weal ; writers of 
tragedy like Sophocles, who laid the foundation of the 
modern drama ; comic poets, like Aristophanes, who ridi- 
culed the public men of the time ; sculptors, like Phidias, 
whose works no chisel has ever dared to excel ; philoso- 
phers, like Anaxagoras, who was pointing to a supreme 
intelligence as the author of all nature. 

Chief among the latter, as judged by succeeding ages, 
and by our own time, was Socrates. Toward the latter 
part of the fifth century, B. C, he was well advanced in 
years, with an accumulated knowledge and wisdom which 
comes to fertile and expanding minds. He went about 
the city talking with all men on all interesting subjects of 
reflection, asking questions of all who would answer, 
inciting men to think, that they might with their own 
wisdom see the truth. He seemed to speak of strange 
things and utter strange words. He did not appear to con- 



INTRODUCTION TO THE APOLOGY. 5 

form entirely to the established lines of thought. There 
were men who made a business of teaching wisdom. 
Socrates cast a doubt about the certainty of all their 
doctrines. He said ' ' Is that surely so ? Can there be no 
advance, no deviation whatever ? ' ' These were the Soph- 
ists. That they might lessen Socrates' influence with the 
people and thereby increase their own, they charged him 
with corrupting the youth, with teaching strange thoughts, 
and strange gods. They said ' ' Socrates does not worship 
the city's gods; he confounds men's minds." The great 
poet Aristophanes, in his comedy, ''The Clouds," was, in 
a measure, the mouthpiece of a certain public opinion 
when he ridiculed the great thinker with being a strange 
and harmful reformer. Men of Athens laughed; some 
scorned or tried to scorn the fearless questioner. He 
loved truth. They mocked him. He was brave and 
gentle. They jeered, they goaded him. He was calm 
and thoughtful. He was confident in his own position, 
for he felt that he was eloquent who speaks the truth. 1 

Masses of men must rely on the superior work of men 
more generously endowed with power of mind and body. 
Men great in action and in thought must do and perform 
work for thousands. Such are the leaders of great re- 
forms, men who have made epochs of history. One such 
man comprises within himself many men. One has com- 
plete within himself the genius, faculties and resources of 
many. 

1 How does this statement conform with the modern idea of eloquence? 



6 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

In the first part of the Apology, Socrates speaks of the 
accusation against him as follows : " It is this : Socrates 
acts wickedly, and with criminal curiosity investigates 
things under the earth and in the heavens. He also 
makes the worse appear the better argument; and he 
teaches these things to others." Such an accusation 
might be brought against every reformer this w 7 orld has 
known. For in the opinion of most contemporaries 
reformers act wickedly. They are wicked because they 
are ' ' curious ' ' to learn more than they already know. 

Socrates pretended to no wisdom; which very fact 
showed he possessed it. The wise man is modest, and of 
all wise men, the inquiring Socrates was the most modest. 
Yet he thought it was "a beautiful thing if one man 
could instruct others. ' ' He was charged with pretending 
to supernatural wisdom. He denied it and said only that 
he did have some human. But even that wisdom to 
which he did modestly lay claim was the wisdom of the 
man who knows that he knows nothing. To an inquiry 
as to who was the wisest of men, the Oracle of Delphi 
answered that Socrates was. This incensed the profes- 
sional wise men of Athens. Socrates did not profess at 
first to know why he should be called the wisest of men. 
So in his customary way he inquires ; he asks questions ; 
he goes among the politicians and talks with them. A 
certain politician pretends to know everything. There- 
fore Socrates feels sure the politician is not wiser than he, 
and the Oracle so far is correct. He goes among the 



INTRODUCTION TO THE APOLOGY. 7 

poets. They are the same as the politicians. Then he 
seeks the company of the artificers. He finds they do 
know something and have some wisdom, but the Oracle's 
dictum is still true. For the artificers pretend to know 
many other things, which they do not at all, and Socrates 
pretends to know nothing. 

The charges against him were general. No direct 
charge could be found. They were such as might be 
made against any man of active speculative thought. 
Men hated him because of the very wisdom of his mod- 
esty. With his very simplicity of thought and action he 
confounded his accusers. They contradicted themselves. 
He puzzled the Athenians as all reformers puzzle their 
contemporaries. He puzzled them not so much by his 
positive opinion as by their ignorance, and superstitious 
fear of any intimation of any change of thought. L,ike 
all men who think fearlessly, freely and independently, 
he was accused of ungodliness and heresy. 

Socrates was tried before the dicasts, the great court 
of justice in Athens, on the charge of corrupting the 
minds of men, and not worshiping the city's gods. He 
made his defense in person, and in the ' 'Apology of Socra- 
tes," which follows, we have Plato's version of Socrates' 
speech. We have no means of being sure just how much 
of what Plato gives us Socrates actually said. In the 
Memorabilia of Zenophon, the Greek soldier and leader 
of the Retreat of the Ten Thousand, the account of 
Socrates' defense agrees substantially with Plato's; never- 



8 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

theless the Apology of Socrates is a work of Plato. 
Socrates left no writings. He simply conversed, talked, 
discussed. He went about the streets doing good. He 
was a man of his own age talking to men of his own time. 
It was left for his great disciple, Plato, in some respects a 
greater thinker than Socrates, to give to all the world the 
words and sayings of the master. In giving those words, 
Plato has added many of his own. He has interspersed 
the sentences of Socrates with those of Plato. Strictly, 
therefore, we must call this defense, " Plato's Apology of 
Socrates. ' ' 

The two philosophers should always be considered 
together ; Socrates, the master ; Plato, a number of years 
younger, the disciple; bound together by ties of love and 
mutual respect. We must note the deep moral tone that 
pervades the purposes of both men. We see how uncon- 
cerned Socrates is about death, looking upon death as 
only a step to a new life. It is this wonderful happy con- 
tentment with all the vicissitudes of life and death that 
gives Socrates' speech the easy flowing style it has. It is 
a philosophical resignation that quiets him and prepares 
him for the fatal hemlock. These moments of passive 
satisfaction may impress the reader with a feeling that 
Socrates was egotistic, that he was egostistically self-satis- 
fied. In such periods of his speech he glows with irony, 
superiority, audacity. Yet these moments which may 
appear the weakest, are really the strongest. They show 
us the great man, confident of his own integrity and the 



INTRODUCTION TO THE APOLOGY. g 

righteousness of his purpose, yielding to the feeling and 
despotic power of the people, people who could not or 
would not understand him. 

The true impression of Socrates making his defense 
before the dicasts has been well put by Cicero. This 
great orator and literary critic speaks of him as appearing 
before his judges as a master, not as a suppliant, being 
tried. And as a master of thought we must conceive 
him, yet as a master as gentle as a suppliant but as fear- 
less and unabashed as a king. He cared not for men. 
He was no respecter of persons. He treated all men 
alike. 



ARGUMENT OF THE APOLOGY. 



T^HE apology of Socrates before the judges is divided into three 
parts: the defense; the speech concerning the mitigation of 
the penalty; his last words to the Athenians. The speech begins 
with a denunciation of studied rhetoric. Socrates seeks only the 
truth and will not clothe his arguments with the studied phrases 
of professional rhetoricians. He wishes to speak in his customary 
way. He begs their indulgence that he may use his own ordinary 
and homely phrases in which to defend himself against his 
accusers. 

He has been accused of many things, but the chief accusation 
is comprised in the charge that he teaches strange gods. There are 
two kinds of accusers who appear against him. 1 (1) The comic poets 
charge that he is a student of physics, that he is "studious of things 
on high and exploring everything under the earth." Socrates admits 
a love for knowledge and for such investigation, but he disclaims 
any acquaintance with the science. He says that there are men 
who can and do teach something in this branch, but that he can 
not and never has taught anything in that line. But why should 
men be condemned for teaching physics? (In Socrates' time it was 
considered wicked to be too wise and "curious" about physical 
phenomena. Such things were left to the gods.) (2) Many men 
charged him with teaching for pay. He denies it. Yet he has 
heard of good men who teach for money and envies them their 
ability. A man should be paid for teaching and caring for a young 
man, as well as a groom for keeping a colt in trim. So Socrates, 
though he tells the Athenians there is no wrong in receiving pay 
for teaching, is yet innocent of the charge which some would use 

'See the clouds of Aristophanes. Ver. 112 et seq et ver. 188. 

II 



12 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

against him. He then tells the story of the Delphic oracle; how 
Chserepho had inquired of the priestess if there were any more 
wise than Socrates, and her reply that there were none. He tells 
of his endeavors to understand the truth of the Delphic answer; 
how he went among the politicians, the poets, the craftsmen; how 
he learned of their conceit and finally understood the oracle. He 
knew that he knew nothing. Such a confession made enemies of 
the professors of knowledge; for Socrates would spoil their trade. 
The wisest is he who knows that his wisdom is nothing. Divinity 
is truly wise; wise in reality. Socrates wishes to impress upon 
men the nothingness of human when compared with divine knowl- 
edge. 

Melitus is the chief accuser and he says that Socrates is here- 
tical and believes that the moon is earth. Socrates shows that this 
doctrine of the moon and sun comes from Anaxagoras, the philos- 
opher, and that it is disseminated in the theatre and that it would 
thus be foolish for him to pretend to originate a doctrine which 
comes from other sources. 

In several pages following Socrates completely confounds his 
accusers concerning their charges of religious heresy. The vulgar 
will accuse him of bringing death upon himself by teaching new 
doctrines. Yet no man should fear death. " For no one knows 
but that death may be to man the greatest of goods." He obeys 
God rather than man. He considers only "whether he acts justly, 
or unjustly, like a good or a bad man." He cares not for tempo- 
rary things, but for eternal. He "loves and honors Athenians, but 
obeys divinity rather than them." He does not defend himself for 
fear of death, but for the principle of truth for which he pleads. 

Socrates explains his wishes and desires in talking with and 
questioning men. He does not desire to be the preceptor of any 
one. Yet if any wish to talk and communicate with him he will 
not and has not repulsed them. He wishes no reward but the 



ARGUMENT OF THE APOLOGY. 13 

mutual good both he and his companions may gain. He offers 
himself to be questioned by the rich and poor, and if any one will 
answer his questions, he in turn will tell all he can in reply to 
othens. 

Many men before him have been tried before the dicasts and 
many have resorted to methods of touching the sentiments of pity, 
in order to play upon the weakness of their judges. But, though 
in the face of death he will not indulge in such practices; yet he 
has relatives, and friends through pity for whom, he might excite 
the judges' leniency. " He is not sprung from an oak nor from 
a rock, but from men;" yet he is willing to die; he will suffer 
nothing dreadful by dying. He would not have earthly immortality, 
even if they did not put him to death. Death is immortality to 
him, however it comes. 

The first part of the apology, the defense proper, closes with a 
strenuous and beautiful assertion of his belief in the gods, and a 
reference to Athenians and "to divinity to judge concerning me 
such things as will be best both for me and you." 

At this point the vote was taken and Socrates was condemned 
by a small majority of the judges. 

According to the custom of the law the prisoner was allowed 
to choose one of three punishments; namely, perpetual imprison- 
ment, a fine, or banishment. Socrates avails himself of the oppor- 
tunity, but very unexpectedly to the judges, he tells them that he 
thinks he ought to be maintained at public expense in the Pryta- 
neum which was the Olympic victor's reward. He has given up 
riches and power for the sake of philosophy. He is poor because 
he has spent his time in benefiting Athens and Athenians. He can 
not choose to pay a fine, for he has no money. He can not choose 
exile, for foreigners would not listen to him, if his own countrymen 
will not; and he would not care to live if he could not continue 
his investigations of truth. But Socrates' friends, Plato and others, 



i 4 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

persuade him to accept a fine and they act as his securities. But 
Socrates had incensed the judges by what they considered insolence 
when he said he thought he deserved a reward rather than punish- 
ment. They condemned him to die. 

Socrates closes with a powerful rebuke of the Athenians. He 
tells them that which literally proves true, that they will meet with 
a fearful retribution. He prophecies that those who condemn 
him will suffer, for men will see the light and will say that Socrates 
was wrongfully murdered. Many whom he has restrained will 
grow more enthusiastic in his favor and more bitter against his 
enemies. His disciples will continue his work. Those who have 
wronged him will suffer for their unrighteousness. 

Very appropriately the final words of the apology are on the 
subject of death. That great mystery was the favorite theme of all 
his discourses, and now that he was about to meet it himself he 
seemed more happy in its discussion than ever before. Death is 
not an evil, said Socrates. It is a positive good or nothing. It is 
a long dreamless sleep or a migration to another place. Either 
was a happy lot. If the latter, what joy would he experience in 
the company of those who had gone before, with Homer's heroes 
and other Greeks! Nothing is evil to a good man. He is willing 
to die. It will be better for him. He exhorts all men to pay more 
attention to virtue than to anything else. With these words of 
kindness and love he gives himself over to die with an equanimity 
and self-resignation characteristic only of a great soul. 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



Pace through thy cell, old Socrates, cheerily to and fro ; 

Keep to the purpose of thy soul, and let the poison flow. 
They may crush to earth the lamp of clay that holds a light divine, 

But they cannot quench the power of thought by all their deadly wine. 

They cannot blot thy spoken words from the memory of man 
By all the poison ever yaats brewed since time its course began ; 

For still the world goes round and round, and the genial seasons run 
And ever the right comes uppermost, and ever is justice done. 



Spoken on his Trial before the Court of the Helicza. 

1KNOW not, O Athenians, how you may have been 
affected by my accusers: I indeed have through them 
almost forgotten myself, so persuasively have they 
spoken; though, as I may say, they have not asserted 
anything which is true. But among the multitude of 
their false assertions I am most surprised at this, in which 
they say that you ought to beware of being deceived by 
me, as if I were an eloquent speaker. For that they 
should not be ashamed of asserting that which facts will 
immediately confute, since in the present instance I shall 
appear to you to be by no means eloquent, — this seems to 
me to be the consummation of impudence; unless they call 
him eloquent who speaks the truth. For, if they assert 
this, I shall indeed acknowledge myself to be a rhetori- 
cian 1 , though not according to their conceptions. They 
have not then as I said, asserted anything which is true; 

• Socrates refers to the professional rhetoricians, who persecute him, but 
who really should be tried rather than he. 

*5 



1 6 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

but from me you will hear all the truth. Not, by Zeus, 
O Athenians, that you will hear from me a discourse 
splendidly decorated with words and phrases, and adorned 
in other respects like the harangues of these men; but 
you will hear me speaking in such language as may 
casually present itself. For I am confident that what I 
say will be just, nor let anyone of you expect it will be 
otherwise: for it does not become one of my age to come 
before you like a lad with a studied discourse. And, 
indeed, I very much request and beseech you, O Atheni- 
ans, that if you should hear me apologizing in the same 
terms and modes of expression which I am accustomed to 
use in the Forum, on the Exchange and Public Banks, 
and in other places, where many of you have heard me, 
— that you will neither wonder nor be disturbed on this 
account, for the case is as follows : — I now for the first 
time come before this tribunal, though I am more than 
seventy years old; and consequently I am a stranger to the 
mode of speaking which is here adopted. As, therefore, 
if I were in reality a foreigner, you would pardon me for 
using the language and the manner in which I had been 
educated, so now I request you, and this justly, as it 
appears to me, to suffer the mode of my diction, whether 
it be better or worse ; and to attend to this, whether I 
speak what is just or not : for this is the virtue of a judge, 
as that of an orator is to speak the truth. 
\ In the first place, therefore, O Athenians, it is just 
"that I should answer the first false accusations of me, 
and my first accusers, and afterwards the latter accu- 
sations, and the latter accusers. For many have been 
accusers of me to you for many years, and who have 
asserted nothing true, of whom I am more afraid than of 



THE A POL OGY OF SOCRA TES. 1 7 

Anytus and his accomplices, though these indeed are 
powerful in persuading ; but those are still more so, who, 
having been conversant with many of you from infancy, 
have persuaded you and accused me falsely. For they 
have said, that there is one Socrates, a wise man, studious 
of things on high, and exploring everything under the 
earth, and who also can make the worse appear the better 
argument. 4 These men, O Athenians, who spread this 
report are my dire accusers. For those who hear it think 
that such as investigate these things do not believe that 
there are gods. In the next place, these accusers are 
numerous, and have accused me for a long time. They 
also said these things to you in that age in which you 
would most readily believe them, some of you being boys 
and lads ; and they accused me unchallenged, there being 
no one to speak in my defense. But that which is most 
irrational of all is this, that neither is it possible to know 
and tell their names, except some one of them should be 
a comic poet. Such however as have persuaded you by 
employing envy and calumny, together with those who, 
being persuaded themselves, have persuaded others, — 
with respect to all these, the method to be adopted is most 
dubious. For it is not possible to call them to account 
here before you, nor to confute any one of them ; but it is 
necessary, as if fighting with shadows, to make my 
defense and refutation without any to answer me. Con- 
sider, therefore, as I have said that my accusers are two- 
fold, some having accused me lately, and others formerly; 
and think that it is necessary I should answer the latter 
of these first ; for you also have heard these my accusers, 
and much more than you have those by whom I have 
t>een recently accused. ]Be it so. I must defend myself 



1 8 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

then, O Athenians, and endeavor in this so short a space 
of time to remove from you the calumny which you have 
so long entertained. I wish, therefore, that this my de- 
fense may effect something better both for you and me, 
and that it may contribute to some more important end. 
I think, however, that it will be attended with difficulty, 
and I am not entirely ignorant what the difficulty is. At 
the same time let this terminate as Divinity pleases. It is 
my business to obey the law, and to make my apology. 
2^ I*et us repeat, therefore, from the beginning what the 
accusation was, the source of that calumny in which 
Melitus confiding brought this charge against me. Be it 
so. What then do my accusers say ? For their accusa- 
tion must be formally recited as if given upon oath. It is 
this : Socrates acts wickedly, and with criminal 

CURIOSITY INVESTIGATES THINGS UNDER THE EARTH, 
AND IN THE HEAVENS. HE ALSO MAKES THE WORSE 
TO APPEAR THE BETTER ARGUMENT ; AND HE TEACHES 

THESE Things To others. Such is the accusation : for 
things of this kind you also have yourselves seen in the 
comedy of Aristophanes ; for there one Socrates is exhib- 
ited, who affirms that he walks upon the air, and idly 
asserts many other trifles of this nature; of which things, 
however, I neither know much nor little. Nor do I say 
this as despising such a science, if there be any one wise 
about things of this kind, lest Melitus should charge me 
with this as a new crime, but because, O Athenians, I 
have no such knowledge. I adduce many of you as wit- 
nesses of this, and I call upon such of you as have at any 
time heard me discoursing, and there are many such 
among you, to teach and declare to each other if you 
have ever heard me speak much or little about things of 



THE APOL OG Y OF SOCRA TES. 1 9 

this kind. And from this you may know that other 
things also, which the multitude assert of me, are all of 
them of a similar nature YVfor no one of them is true. j+ 
For neither if you have heard any one assert that I 
attempt to teach men, and that I make money by so 
doing, — neither is this true. This, indeed, appears to 
me to be a beautiful thing, if some one is able to instruct 
men, like Gorgias the I^eontine, Prodicus the Cean, and 
Hippias the Elean. 1 For each of these, in the several 
cities which he visits, has the power of persuading the 
young men, who are permitted to apply themselves to 
such of their own countrymen as they please without any 
charge, to adhere to them only, and to give them money 
and thanks besides for their instruction. There is also 
another wise man, a Parian, who I hear has arrived 
hither. For it happened that I once met with a man who 
spends more money on the sophists than all others, — I 
mean Callias the son of Hipponicus. I therefore asked 
him, for .he has two sons, O Callias, said I, if your two 
sons were two colts or calves, should we not have some 
one to take care of them, who would be paid for so doing, 
and who would make them beautiful, and the possessors 
of such good qualities as belong to their nature? But 
now, since your sons are men, what master do you intend 
to have for them? Who is there that is scientifically 
knowing in human and political virtue of this kind ? For 
I think that you have considered this, since you have 
sons. Is there such a one, said I, or not? There certainly 
is, he replied. Who is he? said I. And whence is he? 
And for how much money does he teach ? It is Kvenus 
the Parian, said he, Socrates, and he teaches for five 

1 No attempt should be made to remember the men mentioned in either the 
Apology or the Phsedo, as they are not of sufficient historical importance. 



20 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

minae [$75.00]. And I indeed considered Evenus to be 
a happy and fortunate man, if he in reality possesses this 
art, and so elegantly teaches. I therefore should also 
glory and think highly of myself, if I had a scientific 
knowledge of these things; but this, O Athenians, is 
certainly not the case. 
*0 ■ Perhaps, however, some one may reply: But, Socrates, 
what have you done then ? Whence have these calumnies 
against you arisen ? For unless you had more curiously 
emplo}^ed yourself than others, and had done something 
different from the multitude, so great a rumor would 
never have been raised against you. Tell us, therefore, 
what it is, that we may not pass an unadvised sentence 
against you. He who says these things appears to me to 
speak justly, and I will endeavor to show you what that 
is which has occasioned me this appellation and calumny. 
Hear, therefore; and though perhaps I shall appear to 
some of you to jest, yet be well assured that I shall tell 
you all the truth. For I, O Athenians, have acquired 
this name through nothing else than a certain wisdom. 
But of what kind is this wisdom ? Perhaps it is human 
wisdom. For this in reality I appear to possess. Those, 
indeed, whom I just now mentioned possessed perhaps 
more than human wisdom, which I know not how to 
denominate, for I have no knowledge of it. And whoever 
says that I have, speaks falsely, and asserts this to 
calumniate me. But, O Athenians, be not disturbed if I 
appear to speak somewhat magnificently of myself. For 
this which I say is not my own assertion, but I shall 
refer it to one who is considered by you as worthy of 
belief. For I shall adduce to you the Delphic Deity 
himself as a testimony of my wisdom, if I have any, and 



THE APOLOG Y OF SOCRA TES. 2 1 

of the quality it possesses. You certainly then know 
Chaerepho; he was my associate from a youth, was 
familiar with most of you, and accompanied you in and 
returned with you from your exile. You know, there- 
fore, what kind of a man Chaerepho was, and how eager 
in all his undertakings. He then, coming to Delphi, had 
the boldness to consult the oracle about this particular. 
Be not, as I said, O Athenians, disturbed, for he asked if 
there was any one more wise than I am. And the 
Pythian priestess answered that there was not any one 
more wise. His brother can testify to you the truth of 
these things, for Chaerepho himself is dead. 

^ Consider then on what account I assert these things, 
for I am going to inform you whence this calumny against 

-me arose. When I heard this answer of the oracle, I 
thus considered with myself, What does the God say? 
and what does he obscurely signify? For I am not 
conscious to myself that I am wise, either in a great or in 
a small degree. What then does he mean in saying that 
I am most wise ? For he does not lie, since that is not 
possible to him. And for a long time, indeed, I was 
dubious what he could mean. Afterward with consider- 
able difficulty, I betook myself to the following mode 
of investigating his meaning. I went to one of those who 
appear to be wise men, that here if anywhere I might 
confute the prediction, and evince to the oracle that this 
man was more wise than I. Surveying, therefore, this 
man (for there is no occasion to mention his name, but he 
was a politician) ; while I beheld him and discoursed with 
him, it so happened, O Athenians, that this man appeared 
to me to be wise in the opinion of many other men, and 
especially in his own, but that he was not so. And after- 



22 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

wards I endeavored to show him that he fancied himself 
to be wise, but was not. Hence I became odious to him, 
and also to many others that were present. Departing, 
therefore, I reasoned with myself that I was wiser than 
this man. For it appears that neither of us knows any- 
thing beautiful or good; but he, indeed, not knowing, 
thinks that he knows something; but I, as I do not know 
anything, neither do I think that I know. Hence in this 
trifling particular I appear to be wiser than he, because I 
do not think that I know things which I do not know. 
After this I went to another of those who appeared to be 
wiser than he was, and of him also I formed the same 
opinion. Hence also I became odious to him and many 
others. 

Afterwards, however, I went to others, suspecting 
and grieving and fearing that I should make enemies. 
At the same time, however, it appeared to me to be 
necessary to pay the greatest attention to the oracle of the 
God, and that, considering what could be its meaning, I 
should go to all that appeared to possess any knowledge. 
And by the Dog, O Athenians (for it is necessary to 
tell you the truth), that which happened to me was as 
follows: Those that were most celebrated for their wisdom 
appeared to me to be most remote from it, but others who 
were considered as far inferior to them possessed more of 
intellect. J But it is necessary to relate to you my wander- 
ing, and the labors as it were which I endured, that the 
oracle might become to me unconfuted. For after the 
politicians I went to the poets, both tragic and dithyram- 
bic, 1 and also others, expecting that I should here imme- 

i Dithyrambic poetry was lyric; sung by revellers with flute accompani- 
ment; irregular, like the god Bacchus, in whose honor it was sung. 



THE APOLOGY OF SOCRA TBS. 23 

diately find myself to be less wise than these. Taking up, 
therefore, some of their poems which appeared to me to be 
the most elaborately written, I asked them what was their 
meaning, that at the same time I might learn something 
from them. I am ashamed, indeed, O Athenians, to tell 
you the truth, but at the same time it must be told. For, 
as I may say, all that were present would have spoken 
better about the things which they had composed. I 
discovered this, therefore, in a short time concerning the 
poets, that they did not effect by wisdom that which they 
did, but by a certain genius and from enthusiastic energy, 
like prophets and those that utter oracles. For these also 
say many and beautiful things, but they understand 
nothing of what they say. Poets, therefore, appear to me 
to be affected in a similar manner. And at the same time 
I perceived that they considered themselves, on account of 
their poetry, to be the wisest of men in other things, in 
which they were not so. I departed, therefore, also from 
them, thinking that I surpassed them by the very same 
thing in which I surpassed the politicians. 

In the last place, therefore, I went to the artificers. 
For I was conscious to myself that I knew nothing, as I 
may say, but that these men possessed knowledge, because 
I had found them acquainted with many and beautiful 
things. And in this, indeed, I was not deceived, for they 
knew things which I did not, and in this they were wiser 
than I. But, O Athenians, good artificers also appeared 
to me to have the same fault as the poets. For each, in 
consequence of performing well in his art, thought that he 
was also most wise in other things, and those the greatest. 
And this their error obscured that very wisdom which 
they did possess. I therefore asked myself in behalf of 



24 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

the oracle, whether I would choose to be as I am, possess- 
ing no part either of their wisdom or ignorance, or to have 
both which they* possess. I answered, therefore, for 
myself and for the oracle, that it was better for me to 
be as I am. 
}_' From this my investigation, O Athenians, many enmi- 
ties were excited against me, and such as were most 
grievous and weighty, so that many calumnies were pro- 
duced from them; and hence I obtained the appellation of 
the wise man. For those that hear me think that I am 
wise in these things, the ignorance of which I expose in 
others. It appears, however, O Athenians, that Divinity 
is wise in reality, and that in this oracle he says this, that 
human wisdom 1 is but of little, or indeed of no worth; and 
it seems that he used my name, making me an example, 
as if he had said, He, O men, is the wisest among you, 
who, like Socrates, knows that he is in reality of no worth 
with respect to wisdom. These things, therefore, going 
about, I even now inquire and explore in obedience to the 
God, both among citizens and strangers, if any one of 
them appears to me to be wise; and when I find he is not, 
giving assistance to the God, I demonstrate that he is not 
wise. And in consequence of this employment I have no 
leisure worth mentioning either for public or private trans- 
actions; but I am in great poverty through my religious 
cultivations of the God. 

Besides, the youth that spontaneously follow me, who 
especially abound in leisure, as being the sons of the most 
wealthy, rejoice on hearing men confuted by me; and 
often imitating me, they afterwards endeavor to make trial 

1 This explains Socrates famous remark " That he knew that he knew noth- 
ing " wherein he presents a comparison between human and divine knowledge. 



THE APOLOG Y OF SOCRA TES. 25 

of others. In which attempt I think they find a numerous 
multitude of men who fancy that they know something, 
but who know little or nothing. Hence, therefore, those 
who are tried by them are angry with me, and not with 
them, and say that there is one Socrates a most wicked 
person, and who corrupts the youth. And when some 
one asks them what he does, and what he teaches, they 
have nothing to say, but are ignorant. That they may 
not, however, appear to be dubious, they assert things 
which may be readily adduced against all that philosophize, 
as, that he explores things on high and under the earth, 
that he does not think there are gods, and that he makes 
the worse to appear the better reason. For I think they 
are not willing to speak the truth, that they clearly pre- 
tend to be knowing, but know nothing. Hence, as it ap- 
pears to me, being ambitious and vehement and numerous, 
and speaking in a united and plausible manner about me, 
they fill your ears, calumniating me violently from old 
time even till now. Among these, Melitus, Anytus, and 
Lycon, have attacked me; Melitus indeed being my enemy 
on account of the poets; but Anytus on account of the 
artificers and politicians; and L,ycon on account of the 
orators. So that, as I said in the beginning, I should 
wonder if I could remove such an abundant calumny from 
your minds in so short a time. These things, O Athen- 
ians, are true; and I thus speak, neither concealing nor 
subtracting anything from you, either great or small; 
though I know well enough that I shall make enemies by 
what I have said. This, however, is an argument that I 
speak the truth, that this is the calumny which is raised 
against me, and that the causes of it are these. And 
whether now or hereafter you investigate these things, 



26 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 



you will find them to be as I have said.Y Concerning the 
particulars, therefore, which my first accusers urged 
against me, let this be a sufficient apology to you. 

In the next place, I shall endeavor to reply to Melitus, 
that good man and lover of his country, as he says, and 
also to my latter accusers. For again, as being different 
from the former accusers, let us take their oath also. The 
accusation then is as follows: Socrates, it says, is an 

EVIL-DOER, CORRUPTING THE YOUTH; AND, NOT BELIEV- 
ING IN THOSE GODS IN WHICH THE CITY BELIEVES, HE 
INTRODUCES OTHER NOVEL DEMONIACAL NATURES. 

Such then is the accusation; of which let us examine every 
part. It says, then, that I do evil by corrupting the 
youth. But I, O Athenians, say that Melitus does evil 
because he intentionally trifles, rashly bringing men into 
danger, and pretending to be studious and solicitous about 
things which were never the objects of his care. But that 
this is the case I will endeavor to show you. 

Tell me then, O Melitus, whether you consider it as a 
thing of the greatest consequence, for the youth to become 
the best of men ? 

I do. 

Come, then, do you therefore tell them what will make 
them better ? For it is evident that you know, since it is 
the object of your care. For, having found me to be a 
corrupter of youth, as you say, you have brought me 
hither, and are my accuser; but come, inform me who it is 
that makes them better, and signify it to this assembly. 
Do you see, O Melitus, that you are silent, and have not 
anything to say ? Though, does it not appear to you to 
be shameful, and a sufficient argument of what I say, that 



THE APOL OG Y OF SOCRA TES. 27 

this is not the object of your attention ? But tell me, O 
good man, who it is that makes them better? 

The laws. 

I do not, however, ask this, O best of men, but what 
man it is that first knows this very thing, the laws. 

These men, Socrates, are the judges. 

How do you say, Melitus? Do they know how to 
instruct the youth, and to make them better? 

Especially so. 

But whether do all of them know how ? or do some of 
them know, and others not ? 

All of them. 

You speak well, by Hera, and adduce a great abundance 
of those that benefit. But what ? Can these auditors also 
make the youth better, or not ? 

These also. 

And what of the senators ? 

The senators also can effect this. 

But, O Melitus, do some of those that harangue the 
people in an assembly corrupt the more juvenile; or do all 
these make tham better ? 

All these. 

All the Athenians therefore, as it seems, make them to 
be worthy and good, except me, but I alone corrupt them. 
Do you say so ? 

These very things I strenuously assert. 

You charge me with a very great infelicity. But answer 
me: Does this also appear to you to be the case respecting 
horses, viz. , that all men can make them better, but that 
there is only one person that spoils them ? or does the per- 
fect contrary of this take place, so that it is one person 
who can make them better, or, at least, that those possessed 



28 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

of equestrian skill are very few; but the multitude, if they 
meddle with and make use of horses, spoil them ? Is not 
this the case, O Melitus, both with respect to horses and 
all other animals? It certainly is so, whether you and 
Anytus say so, or not. For a great felicity would take 
place concerning youth if only one person corrupted, and 
the rest benefited them. However, you have sufficiently 
shown, O Melitus, that you never bestowed any care upon 
youth; and you clearly evince your negligence, and that 
you pay no attention to the particulars for which you 
accuse me. 

Further still, tell me, by Zeus, O Melitus, whether it is 
better to dwell in good or in bad polities? Answer, my 
friend: for I ask you nothing difficult. Do not the de- 
praved always procure some evil to those that continually 
reside near them; and do not the good procure some good? 1 

Entirely so. 

Is there then any one who wishes to be injured by his 
associates, rather than to be benefited ? Answer, O good 
man: for the law orders you to answer. Is there any one 
who wishes to be injured? 

There is not. 

Come then, whether do you bring me hither, as one that 
corrupts the youth, and makes them depraved willingly, 
or as one who does this unwillingly ? 

I say that you do it willingly. 

But what, O Melitus, is it possible that you, who are so 
much younger than I am, should well know that the de- 
praved always procure some evil to those that are most near 
to them, and the good some good; but that I should have 
arrived at such ignorance as not to know that, if I make 

1 1nfluence of environment. 



THE APOL OG Y OF SOCRA TES. 29 

any one of my associates depraved, I shall be in danger of 
receiving some evil from him; and that I, therefore, do 
this so great an evil willingly, as you say ? I cannot be 
persuaded by you, O Melitus, as to these things, nor do I 
think that any other man would: but either I do not cor- 
rupt the youth, or I corrupt them unwillingly. So that 
you speak falsely in both assertions. But if I unwillingly 
corrupt them, the law does not order me to be brought 
hither for such-like involuntary offenses, but that I should 
be taken and privately taught and admonished. For it is 
evident that, if I am taught better, I shall cease doing that 
which I unwillingly do. But you, indeed, have avoided 
me, and have not been willing to associate with and in- 
struct me; but you have brought me hither, where the 
law orders those who require punishment, and not disci- 
pline, to be brought ./\(LWheref ore, O Athenians, this now 
is manifest which I have said, that Melitus never paid the 
smallest attention to this affair. 

At the same time, however, tell us, O Melitus, how you 
say I corrupt the youth. Or is it not evident, from your 
written accusation, that I teach them not to believe in the 
gods in which the city believes, but in other new divine 
powers? Do you not say that, teaching these things, I 
corrupt the youth ? 

Perfectly so: I strenuously assert these things. 

By those very gods, therefore, Melitus, of whom we 
are now speaking, I charge you speak in a still clearer 
manner both to me and to these men. For I cannot learn 
whether you say that I teach them to think that there are 
not certain gods, though I myself believe that there are 
gods, not being by any means an atheist, nor in this respect 
an evil-doer — not, indeed, such as the city believes in, but 



3 o SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

others, and that this it is for which you accuse me, that I 
introduce other gods; or whether you altogether say that 
I do not believe there are any gods, and that I teach this 
doctrine also to others. 

I say this, that 3^ou do not believe that there are any 
gods. 

O wonderful Melitus, why do you thus speak? Do I 
then think, unlike the rest of mankind, that the sun and 
moon are not gods ? 

He does not, by Zeus, O judges: for he says that the 
sun is a stone, and that the moon is earth. 

O friend Melitus, you think that you accuse Anaxagoras; 
and you so despise these judges, and think them to be so 
illiterate, as not to know that the books of Anaxagoras the 
Clazomenian are full of these assertions. Besides, would 
the youth learn those things from me, which they might 
buy for a drachma [nineteen cents] at most in the theatre, 1 
and thus might deride Socrates if he pretended they were 
his own, especially since they are likewise so absurd? 
But, by Zeus, do I then appear to you to think that there 
is no God ? 

None whatever, by Zeus. 

What you say, O Melitus, is incredible, and, as it 
appears to me, is so even to yourself. Indeed, O Athen- 
ians, this man appears to me to be perfectly insolent and 
intemperate in his speech, and to have in reality written 
this accusation, impelled by a certain insolence, wanton- 
ness and youthfulness. For he seems, as it were, to 
have composed an aenigma in order to try me, and to 
have said to himself, Will the wise Socrates know that I 

1 Euripides, and other dramatists recognized the physical doctrines of 
Anaxagoras in their dramas. 



THE A POL OGY OF SOCRA TES. 3 1 

am jesting, and speaking contrary to myself ? Or shall I 
deceive him, together with the other hearers? For he 
appears to me to contradict himself in his accusation, as if 
he had said, Socrates is impious in not believing that there 
are gods, but believing that there are gods. And this, 
indeed, must be the assertion of one in jest. 

But let us jointly consider, O Athenians, how he 
appears to me to have asserted these things. And do you, 
O Melitus, answer us, and, as I requested }^ou at first, be 
mindful not to disturb me if I discourse after my usual 
manner. Is there then any man, O Melitus, who thinks 
that there are human affairs, but does not think that there 
are men? Pray answer me, and do not make these clam- 
orous digressions. And is there any one who does not 
think that there are horses, but yet thinks that there are 
equestrian affairs? or who does not think that there are 
pipers, but yet that there are things pertaining to pipers? 
There is not, O best of men. For I will speak for you, 
since you are not willing to answer yourself. But answer 
also to this: Is there any one who thinks that there are 
daemoniacal affairs, but yet does not think that there are 
daemons ? 

There is not. 

How averse you are to speak ! so that you scarcely 
answer, compelled by the judges. Do you not, therefore, 
say that I believe in and teach things daemoniacal, whether 
they are new or old? But indeed you acknowledge that I 
believe in things daemoniacal, and to this you have sworn 
in your accusation. If then I believe in daemoniacal 
affairs, there is an abundant necessit} 7 that I should also 
believe in the existence of daemons. Is it not so ? It is. 
For I suppose you to assent, since you do not answer, 



32 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

But with respect to daemons, do we not think either that 
they are gods, or the sons of gods ? Will you acknowl- 
edge this or not ? 

Entirely so. 

If, therefore, I believe that there are daemons as you 
say, if daemons are certain gods, will it not be as I say, 
that you speak aenigmatically and in jest, since you assert 
that I do not think there are gods, and yet again think 
that there are, since I believe in daemons ? But if daemons 
are certain spurious sons of the gods, either from nymphs, 
or from certain others, of whom they are said to be the 
offspring, what man can believe that there are sons of the 
gods, and yet that there are no gods? For this would be 
just as absurd as if some one should think that there are 
colts and mules, but should not think that there are horses 
and asses. However, O Melitus, it cannot be otherwise 
but that you have written this accusation, either to try 
me, or because there was not any crime of which you 
could truly accuse me. For it is impossible that you 
should persuade any man who has the smallest degree of 
intellect, that one and the same person can believe that 
there are daemoniacal and divine affairs, and yet that there 
are neither daemons, nor gods nor heroes. £\fhat I am 
not, therefore, impious, O Athenians, according to the 
accusation of Melitus, does not appear to me to require a 
long apology; but what I have said is sufficient. 

As to what I before observed, that there is a great 
enmity towards me among the vulgar, you may be well 
assured that it is true. And this it is which will condemn 
me, if I should happen to be condemned, viz., the hatred 
and envy of the multitude, and not Melitus, nor Anytus ; 
which indeed has also happened to many others, and those 



THE A POL OGY OF SOCRA TES. 33 

good men , and will , I think , again happen in futurity . 1 For 
there is no reason to expect that it will terminate in me. 
Perhaps, however, someone will say, Are you not ashamed, 
Socrates, to have applied yourself to a study through which 
you are now in danger of being put to death ? To this 
person I shall justly reply, That you do not speak well, 
O man, if you think that life or death ought to be re- 
garded by the man who is capable of being useful though 
but in a small degree ; and that he ought not to consider 
this alone when he acts, whether he acts justly, or un- 
justly, and like a good or a bad man. For those demi- 
gods that died at Troy would, according to your reasoning, 
be vile characters, as well others as the son of Thetis, who 
so much despised the danger of death when compared 
with disgraceful conduct, that when his mother, who was 
a goddess, on his desiring to kill Hector, thus I think ad- 
dressed him 2 — My son, if you revenge the slaughter of 
your friend Patroclus, and kill Hector, you will yourself 
die, for, said she, death awaits you as soon as Hector ex- 
pires : — Notwithstanding this, he considered the danger 
of death as a trifle, and much more dreaded living basely, 
and not revenging his friends. For he says, May I im- 
mediately die, when I have inflicted just punishment on 
him who has acted unjustly, and not stay here by the 
curved ships an object of ridicule, and a burden to the 
ground? Do you think that he was solicitous about 
death and danger ? For this, O Athenians, is in reality 
the case : wherever anyone ranks himself, thinking it to be 
the best for him, or wherever he is ranked by the ruler, 

« 1s not the condemnation of the ignorant more to be dreaded than that of 
the educated? 

2 Iliad. Book xviii, verse 94 seq. 



34 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

there, as it appears to me, he ought to abide, and en- 
counter danger, neither regarding death nor anything else 
before that which is base. 

,1 therefore, O Athenians, should have acted in a vile 
manner, if, when those rulers which you had placed over 
me had assigned me a rank at Potidsea, at Amphipolis, 
and at Delium, 1 I should then have remained where they 
stationed me, like any other man, and should have en- 
countered the danger of death ; but that, when Divinity 
has ordered, as I think and apprehend, that I ought to 
live philosophising, and exploring myself and others, I 
should here, through fear of death, or any other thing, 
desert my rank. For this would be vile : and then in 
reality any one might justly bring me to a court of 
judicature, and accuse me of not believing in the gods, in 
consequence of not obeying the oracle, fearing death, and 
thinking myself to be wise when I am not. For to dread 
death, O Athenians, is nothing else than to appear to be 
wise, without being so : since it is for a man to appear to 
know that which he does not know. For no one knows 
but that death may be to man the greatest of goods; 
but they dread it, as if they well knew that it is the 
greatest of evils. And how is it possible that this should 
not be the most disgraceful ignorance, I mean for a man 
to imagine that he has a knowledge of that of which he is 
ignorant? But I, O Athenians, differ perhaps in this 
from the multitude of men ; and if I should say that I am 
wiser than some one in anything, it would be in this, that 
not having a sufficient knowledge of the things in Hades, 
I also think that I have not this knowledge. But I know 
that to act unjustly, and to be disobedient to one more 

1 Places of three noted battles in Grecian history. 



THE APOL OG Y OF SOCRA TBS. 35 

excellent, whether god or man, is evil and base. I shall 
never, therefore, fear and avoid things which for aught I 
know may be good, before those evils which I know to 
be evils. So that neither if you should now dismiss me 
(being unpersuaded by Anytus, who said that either I 
ought not to have been brought hither at first, or that, 
when brought hither, it was impossible not to put me to 
death, telling you that if I escaped, all your sons study- 
ing what Socrates had taught them would be corrupted), 
if besides these things you should say to me, O Socrates, 
we now indeed shall not be persuaded by Anytus, but we 
shall dismiss you, though on this condition, that after- 
wards you no longer busy yourself with this investigation, 
nor philosophise, and if hereafter you are detected in so 
doing, you shall die, — if, as I said, you should dismiss 
me on these terms, I should thus address you : O Atheni- 
ans, I honor and love you : but I obey Divinity rather 
than you ; and as long as I breathe and am able, I shall 
not cease to philosophise, and to exhort and indicate to 
any one of you I may happen to meet, such things as the 
following, after my usual manner : O best of men, since 
you are an Athenian, of a city the greatest and the most 
celebrated for wisdom and strength, are you not ashamed 
of being attentive to the means of acquiring riches, glory 
and honor in great abundance, but to bestow no care nor 
any consideration upon prudence 1 and truth, nor how 
your soul may subsist in the most excellent condition? 
And if anyone of you should contend with me, and say 
that these things are the objects of his care, I should not 
immediately dismiss him, nor depart, but I should inter- 
rogate, explore and reason with him. And if he should 

1 Meaning contemplation of matters pertaining to the intellect. 



36 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

not appear to me to possess virtue, and yet pretend to 
the possession of it, I should reprove him as one who but 
little esteems things of the greatest worth, but considers 
things of a vile and abject nature as of great importance. 
In this manner I should act by any one I might happen 
to meet, whether younger or older, a stranger or a citizen; 
but rather to citizens, because ye are more allied to me. 
For be well assured that Divinity commands me thus to 
act. And I think that a greater good never happened to 
you in the city, than this my obedience to the will of 
Divinity. For I go about doing nothing else than per- 
suading both the younger and older among you, neither 
to pay attention to the body, nor to riches, nor any- 
thing else prior to the soul ; nor to be so much concerned 
for anything, as how the soul may subsist in the most 
excellent condition. I also say that virtue is not pro- 
duced from riches, but riches from virtue, as likewise all 
other human goods, both privately and publicly. If, 
therefore, asserting these things, I corrupt the youth, 
these things will be noxious ; but if any one says that I 
assert other things than these, he says what is untrue. In 
addition to this I shall say, O Athenians, that whether 
you are persuaded by Anytus or not, and whether you 
dismiss me or not, I shall not act otherwise, even though 
I should die for it many times. 

• Be not disturbed, O Athenians, but patiently hear 
what I shall request of you ; for I think it will be ad- 
vantageous for you to hear. For I am about to mention 
certain other things to you, at which perhaps you will be 
clamorous ; though let this on no account take place. Be 
well assured then, if you put me to death, being such a 
man as I say I am, you will not injure me more than 



THE A POL OG Y OF SOCRA TES. 37 

yourselves. For neither Melitus nor Anytus injures me ; 
for neither can they. Indeed, I think it is not possible 
for a better to be injured by a worse man. He may in- 
deed perhaps condemn me to death, or exile or disgrace; 
and he or some other may consider these as mighty evils. 
I however do not think so ; but, in my opinion, it is much 
more an evil to act as he now acts, who endeavors to put 
a man to death unjustly. Now, therefore, O Athenians, it 
is far from my intention to defend myself (as some one may 
think), but I thus speak for your sake, lest in condemn- 
ing me you should sin against the gift of Divinity. For, 
if you should put me to death, you will not easily find 
such another (though the comparison is ridiculous) whom 
Divinity has united to this city as to a great and generous 
horse, but sluggish through his magnitude, and requiring 
to be excited by some gadfly. In like manner Divinity 
appears to have united such a one as I am to the city, that 
I might not cease exciting, persuading and reproving 
each of you, and everywhere lighting upon you through 
the whole day. Such another man will not easily arise 
among you. And if you will be persuaded by me, you 
will spare me. Perhaps, however, you, being indignant, 
like those who are awakened from sleep, will repulse me, 
and, being persuaded by Anytus, will inconsiderately put 
me to death. Should this be the case, you will pass the 
rest of your time in sleep, unless Divinity should send 
some other person to take care of you. But that I am 
such a one as I have said, one imparted to this city by 
Divinity, you may understand from hence. For my con- 
duct does not appear to be human, in neglecting every- 
thing pertaining to myself and my private affairs for so 
many years, and always attending to your concerns, ad- 



38 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

dressing each of you separately, like a father, or an elder 
brother, and persuading you to the study of virtue. And 
if indeed I had obtained any emolument from this con- 
duct, and receiving a recompense had exhorted you to 
these things, there might be some reason for asserting 
that I acted like other men; but now behold, even my 
accusers themselves, who have so shamelessly calumniated 
me in everything else, have not been so impudent as to 
charge me with this, or to bring witnesses to prove that I 
ever either demanded or solicited a reward. And that I 
speak the truth, my poverty I think affords a sufficient 
testimony. 

A°|* Perhaps, therefore, it may appear absurd, that, going 
about and involving myself in a multiplicity of affairs, I 
should privately advise these things, but that I should 
never dare to come to your public assembly, and consult 
for the city. The cause of this is that which you have 
often heard me everywhere asserting — viz. , because a cer- 
tain divine and dsemoniacal voice is present with me, which 
also Melitus in his accusation derided. This voice at- 
tended me from a child ; and when it is present, always 
dissuades me from what I intended to do, but never incites 
me. This it is which opposed my engaging in political 
affairs ; and to me its opposition appears to be most right 
and proper. For be well assured, O Athenians, if I had 
formerly attempted to transact political affairs, I should 
have perished long before this, and should neither have 
benefited you in any respect, nor myself. And be not 
indignant with me for speaking the truth. For it is not 
possible that any man can be safe, who sincerely opposes 
either you, or any other multitude, and who prevents 
many unjust and illegal actions from taking place in the 



THE A POL OG Y OF SOCRA TES. 39 

city ; but it is necessary that he who will really contend 
for the right, if he wishes even but for a little to be safe, 
should live privately, and not engage in public affairs. 

I will present you with mighty proofs of these things, 
not words, but that which you honor more, namely, 
deeds. Hear then the circumstances which have hap- 
pened to me, that you may know that I shall not yield to 
any one contrary to what is becoming, through dread of 
death ; though at the same time by not yielding I should 
perish. For I, O Athenians, never bore the office of 
magistrate 1 in the city, but I have been a senator : and it 
happened that our Antiochean tribe governed, when you 
thought proper to condemn the ten generals collectively, 
for not taking up the bodies of those that perished in the 
naval battle; 2 and in so doing acted illegally, as after- 
wards appeared to all of you. At that time I alone of the 
Prytaneans opposed you, that you might not act contrary 
to the laws, and my suffrage was contrary to yours. 
When the orators also were ready to point me out and 
condemn me, and you likewise were exhorting and vocif- 
erating to the same end, I thought that I ought rather to 
encounter danger with law and justice, than adhere to you 
in your injustice, through fear of bonds or death. And 
these things indeed happened while the city was yet a 
democracy ; but when it became an oligarchy, the Thirty 
sent for me and four others to the Tholus, and ordered 
us to bring I^eon the Salaminian from Salamis, in order 

i In 509 B. C, by the reforms of Clisthenes, the Athenians were divided into 
ten tribes. Fifty men, called Prytani or Senators, were chosen from each tribe, 
and each set of fifty governed for thirty-five days. 

* Victory of the ten Athenian generals over the Spartans led by Callicra- 
ti4es, battle of Arginusse. Matter part of Peloponnesian war. 



4 o SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

to be put to death ; for by these orders they meant to 
involve many others in guilt. Then indeed I, not in 
words but in deeds, showed them, if I may use so vulgar 
an expression, that I cared not a snap of my fingers for 
death ; but that all my attention was directed to this, that 
I might do nothing unjust or unholy. For that dominion 
of the Thirty, though so strong, did not terrify me into 
the perpetration of any unjust action. But when we 
departed from the Tholus, the four indeed went to Sal- 
amis, and brought with them Leon ; but I returned home. 
And perhaps for this I should have been put to death, if 
that government had not been rapidly dissolved. These 
things many of you can testify. 

Do you think, therefore, that I could have lived for 
so many years, if I had engaged in public affairs, and had 
acted in a manner becoming a good man, giving assist- 
ance to justice, and doing this in the most eminent degree? 
Far otherwise, O Athenians : for neither could any other 
man. But I, through the whole of my life, if I do any- 
thing publicly, shall appear to be such a man ; and being 
the same privately, I shall never grant anything to any 
one contrary to justice, neither to any other, nor to any 
one of these whom my calumniators say are my disciples. 
I however was never the preceptor of any one ; but I 
never repulsed either the young or the old, that were 
desirous of hearing me speak after my usual manner. 
Nor do I discourse when I receive money, and refrain 
from speaking when I do not receive any ; but I similarly 
offer myself to be interrogated by the rich and the poor : 
and if any one is willing to answer, he hears what I have 
to say. Of these too, whether any one becomes good or 
not, I cannot justly be said to be the cause, because I 



THE APOLOG Y OF SOCRA TES. 41 

never either promised or taught them any discipline. But 
if any one says that he has ever learnt or heard anything 
from me privately which all others have not, be well as- 
sured that he does not speak the truth. 

Why therefore some have delighted to associate with 
me for a long time ye have heard, O Athenians. I have 
told you all the truth, that men are delighted on hearing 
those interrogated who think themselves to be wise, but 
who are not : for this is not unpleasant. But, as I say, I 
am ordered to do this by Divinity, by oracles, by dreams, 
and by every mode by which any other divine destiny 
ever commanded anything to be done by man. These 
things, O Athenians, are true, and might easily be con- 
futed if they were not. For if, with respect to the youth, 
I corrupt some, and have corrupted others, it is fit, if any 
of them have become old, that, knowing that I gave them 
bad advice when they were young, they should now rise 
up, accuse and take vengeance on me ; but if they them- 
selves are unwilling to do this, that their fathers, or 
brothers or others of their kindred, should now call to 
mind and avenge the evil which their relatives suffered 
from me. But in short, many of them are here present, 
whom I see : — In the first place, Crito, who is of the same 
age and city that I am, and who is the father of this 
Critobulus : in the next place, I/ysanias the Sphecian, the 
father of this ^schines ; and further still, Antipho the 
Cephisian, the father of Kpigenes. There are also others 
whose brothers are in this assembly — viz., Nicostratus, 
the son of Zotidas, and the brother of Theodotus. And 
Theodotus indeed is dead, and so will not hinder him. 
Paralus also is here, the son of Demodochus, of whom 
Theages was the brother ; likewise Adimantus, the son of 



42 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

Aristo, the brother of whom is this Plato ; and iEanti- 
dorus, of whom Apollodorus is the brother. I could also 
mention many others, some one of whom Melitus, especially 
in his oration, ought to have adduced as a witness. If 
however he then forgot to do so, let him now produce 
him, for he has my consent ; and if he has anything of 
this kind to disclose, let him declare it. However, you 
will find the very contrary of this to be the case, and that 
all these are ready to assist me who have corrupted and 
injured their kindred, as Melitus and Anytus say. It 
might indeed perhaps be reasonable to suppose that those 
whom I have corrupted would assist me ; but what other 
reason can the relatives of these have, who are not cor- 
rupted, and who are now advanced in age, for giving me 
assistance, except that which is right and just? For 
they know that Melitus lies, and that I speak the truth. 
Be it so then, O Athenians : and these indeed, and per- 
haps other such-like particulars, are what I have to urge 
in my defense. 

Perhaps, however, some one among you will be indig- 
nant on recollecting that he, when engaged in a much less 
contest than this, suppliantly implored the judges with 
many tears ; that he also brought his children hither, that 
by these he might especially excite compassion, together 
with many others of his relatives and friends : but I do 
none of these things, though, as it may appear, I am 
brought to extreme danger. Perhaps, therefore, some 
one thus thinking may become more hostile towards me, 
and, being enraged with these very particulars, may give 
his vote with anger. If then any one of you is thus 
affected, — I do not think there is any one, but if there 
should be, I shall appear to myself to speak equitably to 



THE A POL OG Y OF SOCRA TES. 43 

such a one by saying that I also, O best of men, have cer- 
tain relatives. For, as Homer says, I am not sprung 
from an oak, nor from a rock, but from men. So that I 
also, O Athenians, have relations, and three sons; one 
now a lad ; but the other two, boys : I have not however 
brought any one of them hither, that I might supplicate 
you on that account to acquit me. Why is it then that I 
do none of these things? It is not, O Athenians, because 
I am contumacious, nor is it in contempt of you. And 
as to my fearing or not fearing death, that is another 
question. But it does not appear to me to be consistent 
either with my own credit or yours, or that of the whole 
city, that I should do an3^thing of this kind at my age, 
and with the reputation I have acquired, whether true 
or false. For it is admitted that Socrates surpasses in 
something the multitude of mankind. If, therefore, 
those among you who appear to excel either in wisdom, 
in fortitude or anj r other virtue, should act in such 
a manner as I have seen some when they have been 
judged, it would be shameful : for these, appearing 
indeed to be something, have conducted themselves very 
strangely, thinking they should suffer something dread- 
ful by dying, as if they would be immortal if you did 
not put them to death. These men, as it appears to me 
would so disgrace the city, that any stranger might 
apprehend that such of the Athenians as excel in virtue, 
and who are promoted to the magistracy and other honors 
in preference to the rest, are no better than women. For 
these things, O Athenians, ought not to be done by us 
who have gained some degree of reputation, nor should 
you suffer us to do them, if we were willing ; but you 
should show that you will much sooner condemn him 



44 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

who introduces these lamentable dramas, and who thus 
makes the city ridiculous, than him who quietly expects 
your decision. 

But exclusive of our credit, O Athenians, neither does 
it appear to me to be just for the accused to entreat his 
judge nor to supplicate for an acquittal ; but in my opin- 
ion he ought to teach and persuade him. For a judge 
does not sit for the purpose of showing favor, but that he 
may judge what is just : and he takes an oath that he will 
not show favor to any, but that he will judge according 
to the laws. Hence it is neither fit that we should ac- 
custom you, nor that you should be accustomed to for- 
swear yourselves : for in so doing neither of us will act 
piously. Do not, therefore, think, O Athenians, that I 
ought to act in such a manner towards you that I should 
neither conceive to be honorable, nor just nor holy ; and 
especially, by Zeus, since I am accused of impiety by this 
Melitus. For it clearly follows, that if I should persuade 
you, and, though you have taken an oath, force you to 
be favorable, I might then indeed teach that you do not 
think there are gods ; and in reality, while making my 
defense, I should accuse myself as not believing in the 
gods. This however is far from being the case: for I 
believe that there are gods more than any one of my 
accusers ; and I refer it to you and to Divinity to judge 
concerning me such things as will be best both for me 
and you. 

After Socrates had thus spoken, votes were taken by the judges, 
and he was condemned by a majority of five or six voices. 
His speech after his condemnation commences in the para- 
graph immediately following. 

That I should not, therefore, O Athenians, be indig- 
nant with you because you have condemned me, there are 



THE A POL OG Y OF SOCRA TBS. 45 

many reasons, and among others this, that it has not 
happened to me contrary to my expectation ; but I much 
rather wonder that there should have been so great a 
number of votes on both sides. For I did not think that 
I should have wanted such a few additional votes for my 
acquittal. But now, as it seems, if only three votes had 
changed sides, I should have escaped condemnation. In- 
deed, as it appears to me, I now have escaped Melitus ; 
and I have not only escaped him, but it is perfectly 
evident that unless Anytus and I^yco had risen to accuse 
me, he had lost his thousand 1 drachmas, since he had not 
had the fifth part of the votes on his side. 

Melitus then thinks that I deserve death. Be it so. 
But what punishment, 2 O Athenians, shall I assign to 
myself ? Is it not evident that it will be such a one as I 
deserve ? What then do I deserve to suffer or to pay, for 
not having during my life concealed what I have learned, 
but neglected all that the multitude esteem, riches, domes- 
tic concerns, military commands, authority in public 
assemblies and other magistracies? for having avoided 
the conspiracies and seditions which have happened in the 
city, thinking that I was in reality a more worthy charac- 
ter than to depend on these things for my safety ? I have 
not, therefore, applied myself to those pursuits, by which 

1 According to the law of Athens if there were not one-fifth of the votes in 
favor of the accusation, the accused was fined a thousand drachmas. 

2 When the criminal was found guilty and the accuser demanded a sen- 
tence of death, the law allowed the prisoner to condemn himself to one of these 
three punishments — viz., perpetual imprisonment, a fine or banishment. This 
privilege was first enacted on the behalf of the judges, that they might not 
hesitate to pass sentence on those who, by condemning themselves, owned 
their guilt. Socrates, therefore, in obedience to the laws, and in order to pro- 
claim his innocence, instead of a punishment demanded a reward worthy of 
himself. 



46 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

I could neither benefit you nor myself ; but my whole 
endeavor has been to benefit every individual in the great- 
est degree ; striving to persuade each of you, that he 
should pay no attention to any of his concerns, prior to 
that care of himself by which he may become a most 
worthy and wise man ; that he should not attend to the 
affairs of the city prior to the city itself ; and that atten- 
tion should be paid to other things in a similar manner. 
What then, being such a man, do I deserve to suffer? 
Some kind of good, O Athenians, if in reality you honor 
me according to my desert ; and this such a good as it is 
proper for me to receive. What then is the good which 
is adapted to a poor man who is a benefactor, and who 
requires leisure that he may exhort you to virtue ? There 
is not anything more adapted, O Athenians, than that 
such a man should be supported at the public expense in 
the Prytaneum ; and this much more than if some one of 
you had been victorious in the Olympic games with 
horses, or in the two or four-yoked car. For such a one 
makes you appear to be happy, but I cause you to be so : 
and he is not in want of support, but I am. If, therefore, 
it is necessary that I should be honored according to what 
is justly my desert, I should be honored with this support 
in the Prytaneum. 

Perhaps, therefore, in saying these things, I shall 
appear to you to speak in the same manner as when I 
reprobated lamentations and supplications. A thing of 
this kind, however, O Athenians, is not the case, but 
rather the following. I am determined not to injure any 
man willingly ; though I shall not persuade you of this, 
because the time in which we can discourse with each 
other is but short. For if there was the same law with 



THE A POL OG Y OF SOCRA TBS. 47 

you as with others, that in cases of death the judicial pro- 
cess should not continue for one day only but for many, 
I think I should be able to persuade you. But now it is 
not easy in a short time to dissolve great calumnies. 
Being, however, determined to injure no one, I shall be 
very far from injuring myself, and of pronouncing against 
myself that I am worthy of evil and punishment. What 
then? Fearing lest I should suffer that which Melitus 
thinks I deserve, which I say I know not whether it is 
good or evil ; that I may avoid this, shall I choose that 
which I well know not to be evil, and think that I deserve 
this ? Whether then shall I choose bonds ? But why is 
it necessary that I should live in prison, in perpetual sub- 
jection to the eleven magistrates ? Shall I pay a fine then, 
and remain in bonds till it is discharged ? But this is 
what I just now said : for I have not money to pay it. 
Shall I then choose exile ? For perhaps I shall be thought 
worthy of this. I should, however, O Athenians, be a 
great lover of life, if I were so absurd as not to be able 
to infer that if you, being my fellow-citizens, could not 
endure my habits and discourses, which have become to 
you so burdensome and odious, that you now seek to be 
liberated from them, it is not likely that others would 
easily bear them. It is far otherwise, O Athenians. My 
life would be beautiful indeed were I at this advanced 
age to live in exile, changing and being driven from one 
city to another. For I well know that, wherever I may 
go, the youth will hear me when I discourse, in the same 
manner as they do here. And if I should repel them, they 
also would expel me, persuading the more elderly to this 
effect. But if I should not repel them, the fathers and 
kindred of these would banish me on account of these 
very young men themselves, 



48 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

Perhaps, however, some one will say, Can you not, 
Socrates, live in exile silently and quietly ? But it is the 
most difficult of all things to persuade some among you 
that this cannot take place. For if I say that in so doing 
I should disobey Divinity, and that on this account it is 
impossible for me to live a life of leisure and quiet, you 
would not believe me, in consequence of supposing that I 
spoke ironically. And if, again, I should say that this is 
the greatest good to man, to discourse every day concern- 
ing virtue, and other things which you have heard me 
discussing, exploring both myself and others ; and if I 
should also assert that a life without investigation is not 
worthy for a man to live, much less, were I thus to speak, 
would you believe me. These things, however, Atheni- 
ans, are as I say ; but it is not easy to persuade you that 
they are so. And at the same time I am not accustomed 
to think myself deserving of any ill. Indeed, if I were 
rich, I would amerce myself in such a sum as I might be 
able to pay ; but now I am not in a condition to do this, 
unless you would allow the fine to be proportioned to what 
I am able to pay. For thus perhaps I might be able to 
pay a mina of silver [$15.00] . But Plato here, O Athen- 
ians, Crito, Critobulus and Apollodorus, exhort me thirty 
minse [$450.00], for which they will be answerable. I 
amerce myself, therefore, in thirty minae ; and these will 
be my securities for the payment. 

Socrates having amerced himself in obedience to the laws, 
the judges took the affair into consideration, and, without 
any regard to the fine, condemned him to die. After the 
sentence was pronounced, Socrates addressed them as in the 
next paragraph. 

Now, O Athenians, your impatience and precipitancy 
will draw upon you a great reproach, and give occasion 



THE A POL OGY OF SOCRA TES. 49 

to those who are so disposed, to revile the city for having 
put that wise man Socrates to death. For those who are 
willing to reproach you will call me a wise man, though I 
am not. If, therefore, you had waited but for a short 
time, this very thing, my death, would have happened to 
you spontaneously. For behold my age, that it is far ad- 
vanced in life, and is near to death. But I do not say 
this to all of you, but to those only who have condemned 
me to die. This only I say to them : Perhaps you think, 

Athenians, that I was condemned through the want of 
such language, by which I might have persuaded you, if 

1 had thought it requisite to say and do anything, so that 
I might escape punishment. Far otherwise : for I am 
condemned through want indeed, yet not of words, but of 
audacity and impudence, and because I was unwilling to 
say such things to you as you would have been much 
gratified in hearing, I at the same time weeping and 
lamenting, and doing and saying many other things un- 
worthy of me, as I say, but such as you are accustomed 
to hear and see in others. But neither then did I think it 
was necessary, for the sake of avoiding danger, to do any- 
thing so slavish, nor do I now repent that I have thus 
defended myself ; but I should much rather choose to die, 
after having made this apology, than to live after that 
manner. For neither in a judicial process, nor in battle, 
is it proper that I or any other should devise how he may 
by any means avoid death ; since in battle it is frequently 
evident that a man might easily avoid death by throwing 
away his arms, and suppliantly converting himself to his 
pursuers. There are also many other devices in other 
dangers, by which he who is ready to do and say any- 
thing may escape death. To fly from death, however, O 

4 



5 o SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

Athenians, is not difficult, but it is much more difficult to 
fly from depravity ; for it runs swifter than death. And 
now, I indeed, as being slow and old, am caught by the 
slower ; but my accusers, as being skillful and swift, are 
caught by the swifter of these two, improbity. Now, too, 
I indeed depart, condemned by you to death ; but they 
being condemned by truth, depart to depravity and in- 
justice. And I acquiese in this decision, and they also. 
Perhaps it is necessary that these things should be so, and 
I think they are right. 

In the next place, I desire to predict to you who have 
condemned me, what will be your fate. For I am now in 
that situation in which men especially prophesy — viz., 
when they are about to die. For I say, that you, my 
murderers, will immediately after my death be punished, 1 
in a manner, by Zeus, much more severe than I shall. 
For now you have done this, thinking you should be lib- 
erated from the necessity of giving an account of your 
life. The very contrary, however, as I say, will happen 
to you : for many will be your accusers, whom I have re- 
strained, though you did not perceive it. These too will 
be more troublesome, because they are younger, and will 
be more indignant against you. For if you think that by 
putting men to death you will restrain others from upbraid- 
ing you that you do not live well, you are much mistaken; 
since this mode of liberation is neither sufficiently effica- 
cious nor becoming. But this is the most beautiful and 
the most easy mode, not to disturb others, but to act in 

1 This prediction was fulfilled almost immediately after the death of Soc- 
rates. The Athenians repented of their cruelty; and his accusers were 
universally despised and shunned. One of them, Melitus, was torn in pieces; 
another, Anytus, was expelled the Heraclea, to which he fled for shelter; and 
others destroyed themselves. And, in addition to this, a raging plague soon 
after desolated Athens. 



THE APOLOG Y OF SOCRA TBS. 5 1 

such a manner that you may be most excellent characters. 
And this much I prophesy to those of you who con- 
demned me. 

But to you who have acquitted me by your decision, I 
would willingly speak concerning this affair during the 
time that the magistrates are at leisure, and before I am 
brought to the place where I am to die. Attend to me, 
therefore, O Athenians, during that time. For nothing 
hinders our conversing with each other as long as we are 
permitted so to do ; since I wish to demonstrate to you, as 
friends, the meaning of that which has just now hap- 
pened to me. To me, then, O my judges (and in calling 
you judges I rightly denominate you), a certain wonder- 
ful circumstance has happened. For the prophetic voice 
of the daemon, which opposed me in the most trifling 
affairs, if I was about to' act in anything improperly, prior 
to this, I was continually accustomed to hear ; but now, 
though these things have happened to me which you see, 
and which some one would think to be the extremity of 
evils, yet neither when I departed from home in the 
morning was the signal of the God averse to me, nor 
when I ascended hither to the place of judgment, nor 
when I was about to speak, — though at other times it 
frequently restrained me in the midst of speaking. But 
now, in this affair, it has never been averse to me either 
in word or deed. I will now, therefore, tell you what I 
apprehend to be the cause of this. For this thing which 
has happened appears to me to be good ; nor do those of 
us apprehend rightly who think death to be an evil ; of 
which this appears to me to be a great argument, that the 
accustomed signal would have opposed me, unless I had 
been about to do something good. 



52 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

After this manner too we may conceive that there is 
abundant hope that death is good. For to die is one of 
two things. For it is either to be as it were nothing, and 
to be deprived of all sensation ; or, as it is said, it is a 
certain mutation and migration of the soul from this to 
another place. And whether no sensation remains, but 
death is like sleep when unattended with any dreams, in 
this case death will be a gain. For, if any one compares 
such a night as this, in which he so profoundly sleeps as 
not even to see a dream, with the other nights and days 
of his life, and should declare how many he had passed 
better and more pleasantly than this night, I think that 
not only a private man, but even the Great King himself, 
would find so small a number that they might be easily 
counted. If, therefore, death is a thing of this kind, I 
say it is a gain : for thus the whole of future time appears 
to be nothing more than one night. But if again death 
is a migration from hence to another place, and the asser- 
tion is true that all the dead are there, what greater 
good, O my judges, can there be than this. For if some 
one arriving at Hades, being liberated from these who 
pretend to be judges, should find those who are true 
judges, and who are said to judge there — viz., Minos and 
Rhadamanthus, iEacus and Triptolemus, and such others 
of the demi-gods as lived justly, would this be a journey 
to despise ? At what rate would you not purchase a confer- 
ence with Orpheus and Musseus, with Hesiod and Homer ? 
I indeed should be willing to die often if these things are 
true. For to me the association will be admirable, when 
I shall meet with Palamedes, and Ajax, the son of Tela- 
mon, and any other of the ancients who died through an 
unjust decision. The comparing my case with theirs 



THE APOLOG Y OF SOCRA TBS. 53 

will, I think, be no unpleasing employment to me. But 
the greatest pleasure will consist in passing my time 
there, as I have done here, in interrogating and exploring 
who among them is wise, and who fancies himself to be 
but is not so. What, O my judges, would not any one 
give for a conference with him who led that mighty army 
against Troy, or with Odysseus, or Sisyphus, or ten 
thousand others, both men and women, that might be 
mentioned? For to converse and associate with these, 
and interrogate them, would be an inestimable felicity. 
There, assuredly, it is no capital crime to do so ; since 
they are in other respects more happy than those that live 
here, and are for the rest of time immortal, if the asser- 
tions respecting these things are true. 

You, therefore, O my judges, ought to entertain good 
hopes with respect to death, and to be firmly persuaded of 
this one thing, that to a good man nothing is evil, neither 
while living nor when dead, and that his concerns are 
never neglected by the gods. Nor is my present condition 
the effect of chance ; but this is evident to me, that now 
to die, and be liberated from the affairs of life, is better 
for me. On this account the accustomed signal did not 
in this affair oppose me. Nor am I very indignant with 
those that accused and condemned me, though their inten- 
tion in so doing was to injure me ; and for this they 
deserve to be blamed. Thus much, however, I request 
of them : That you will punish my sons when they grow 
up, afflicting them as I have afflicted you, if .they shall 
appear to you to pay more attention to riches or anything 
else than to virtue ; and if they shall think themselves to 
be something when they are nothing, that you will repro- 
bate them as I do you, for neglecting the care of things 



54 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

to which they ought to attend, and conceiving themselves 
to be of some consequence when they are of no worth. 
If ye do these things, your conduct both towards me and 
my sons will be just. But it is now time for us to depart 
hence, — for me to die, but for you to live. Which of us, 
however, will arrive at a better thing is manifest to none 
but Divinity. 




INTRODUCTION TO THE PMDO. 



IN the time of Socrates and Plato, human thought was 
in its beginning. Man's mind had not reached out 
and grasped hold of those great ideas of life and death 
which it afterwards attained. 

There were, of course, many instructive feelings about 
life and death, thoughts, hopes and fears which seem 
indigenous to all human flesh. Man wondered who he 
was, whence he came and whither he went. But he only 
wondered ; he had not as yet reasoned much about it. 

The time of these two great Greeks was, we might say, 
the cradle of philosophy. 

Immortality is the great lesson of Socrates and Plato. 
All men have a more or less shadowy notion of some kind 
of future life. 

It is and has been accepted by many, perhaps by most 
men, merely from some inward prompting of the instinct. 
But Socrates first, and Plato afterwards, reasoned about 
this immortality, this life after death, this second life. 

The idea of immortality, once accepted without dis- 
cussion, grew stronger when nurtured by the light of 
scientific thought. Fearless doubt and inquiry at first led 
some devout souls to fear for the preservation of such a 
precious hope. But doubt, inquiry and reason strengthen 

55 



56 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

truth. Doubt and investigation are not always negative 
in their conclusions. They are more frequently affirma- 
tive in their final results. But some will say that immor- 
tality is not a thing to be investigated ; that which is 
beyond and after the life of man can not be known by him. 
Under such difficulties then, as the limitations of man's 
earthly existence place him, he must resort in his reason- 
ing to methods of analogy. We therefore look to the 
actions of nature, to the chrysalis and the butterfly and 
similar phenomena. It would seem that all men who 
believe in an all powerful, all good God, must simultane- 
ously believe in the eternal life of man. The nature of 
such a God and the first principles of morality and 
immortality go hand in hand throughout all eternity. 
Again, how short is the life of fame ! How soon are men 
forgotten ! How few, if any men are really remembered 
or cared for beyond their own generation ! Are such men, 
mighty souls on earth to fall and be no more forever? If 
so, life is a farce, a joke, a delusion, a passing fancy, 
nothing. 

The soul is the great ideal. Plato thinks that the soul 
has a life by itself; Spinoza that the soul vanishes into 
infinity, that it has no existence by itself. Are soul and 
body separable or inseparable? If separable, there may 
be immortality; if inseparable, there is none. The human 
being alone has the consciousness of truth and justice ancl 
love, which is the consciousness of God. The soul 
becoming more conscious of these, becomes more con- 



INTRODUCTION TO THE PH^EDO. 57 

scious of its own immortality. (Psalms vi : 5 ; xvi : 10 ; 
xc ; Isaiah xxxviii : 1 8 ; Ecclesiastes viii : 8- 1 7 ; iii : 1 9 ; iv : 2) . 
But what is immortality? Who receive its blessings? 
The first we can not answer in any definite way. The 
thing itself is too indefinite for us to wish any exact 
description. But let us be content with simply saying 
that it is life everlasting, somewhere, somehow. But the 
second ; who receive its blessings? Verily, we could not 
conceit to ourselves such vast far reaching happiness and 
deny it to others. The bad have need of it more than the 
good. Yet we would not refuse it to the good. A wicked 
man is an object of pity more than of hatred. A great 
divine mercy is more consistent than anger. Yet it is 
rather a common feeling that the wicked never see all 
perfect, immortal happiness. By some, they are con- 
demned to everlasting punishment, or everlasting death. 
We may in our argument ask ourselves why these men 
take more delight in cursing the wicked than in uplifting 
them. But the necessity for such a question carries with 
it the total lack of any necessity for an answer. The 
mind of a man who hurls his offending brother into an 
abyss of constant torture or into an ethereal nothingness, 
at the same time appropriating to himself perfect eternal 
happiness, can have no reason but a poisoned, inflam- 
mable and biased brain. We may be sure that many such 
would themselves be wicked, if placed in the circumstances 
of the wicked. Mercy, pity then lead us to a belief in a 
universal, not a limited immortality. 



58 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

Perhaps immortality is a growth in knowledge and in 
good. All men could participate in such an immortality. 
Death would then be simply a boundary, marking an epoch 
of everlasting life, a station in the journey of eternal exist- 
ence. The world is constantly growing better. It has 
passed through thousands of years of slow improvement. 
Its customs, laws, institutions have gone through various 
stages of development, always changing and progressing 
for the better. The physical, mental and moral condition 
of man is better than it ever was. Then let us conjecture 
that immortality is a part of this vast scheme of growth 
towards perfection. But let no one dream when that per- 
fection will be reached. We might as well attempt to 
plan a pedestrian journey to the farthest star and then 
from that star to each and all the others. 

Belief in a perfect God carries with it belief in 
immortality. A good, wise and merciful all perfect God 
would not condemn rational beings like ourselves to sep- 
aration from the immortal happiness of His Own Perfec- 
tion. Therefore immortality is one and inseparable with 
an All Perfect God. 



ARGUMENT OF THE PH^EDO 



PHUUS. Peacf, of Narration. 
SCENE. Prison of Socrates. 



DHiEDO, a disciple of Socrates, narrates the dialogue to Eche- 
crates of Phlius. The narration by Phsedo took place a year 
or more after the death of Socrates. 

There was a custom in Athens that no punishment by the State 
should take place while the Sacred Ship was out of the harbor. 
When Socrates was condemned to death this sacred boat was on a 
voyage to Delos and return. Thirty days elapsed between the time 
of Socrates' condemnation and the return of the ship. The philo- 
sopher during this interval daily received his friends and discussed 
as he had always done before, the great things of life and death. 
On the occasion described by Plato, there were present besides 
Phaedo, the narrator of the story, Simmias and Cebes, from Thebes, 
Crito, an old friend, Apollodorus, Euclid and others, together with 
Xantippe, Socrates' famous scolding wife. The latter is first 
excluded from the company and Socrates and his few chosen 
friends begin their deliberations. 

Socrates begins his argument with a reference to the law of the 
alternation of opposites as one point of evidence of immortality. 
When he has spoken along this line a short time, and has reached 
a climax showing his utter lack of fear of death, Cebes complains 
of the philosopher's absolute indifference about death. His friends 
manifest their dislike of his approaching death and Socrates calms 
them with his anticipation of coming and greater happiness with 
other gods and friends in death. Life is a prison ; when the door 
is opened, man should be willing to leave and enter the freedom of 

59 



60 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

immortality. Socrates asks; "What is death?" He answers: 
"It is the separation of soul and body." He desires to escape 
from the prison of the body, from the desires of the senses. He 
can not see truth clearly when prejudiced by animal interests. He 
longs for the complete sway of the all absorbing mind, the universal, 
immortal mind that dwells only on truth. He speaks of the 
mysteries and quotes ' ' Many are the wand bearers but few are the 
mystics. " ( " Many are called but few are chosen. ' ' — Matt, xxii : 14. ) 

But Cebes fears the possibility of the annihilation of the soul 
with the death of the body. Socrates refutes this by the doctrine 
of opposites; sleeping, waking; good, bad; life, death. Life is 
generated from death. Nature proves this in many ways. Plant 
life is a notable example. 

Another argument brought out in the discussion is that remini- 
scence proves the pre-existence of the soul. There is in an 
untutored youth an inherent knowledge of mathematics. The 
association of ideas and pictures is another. Simmias and Cebes 
say these things prove only a former existence. Socrates speaks of 
the soul as indissoluble, as the body is dissoluble. The invisible 
idea and the visible object of sense are as the immortality of the 
soul, and the mortality of the body. The soul is the image of 
divinity. 

But perhaps polluted, debased souls may pass into the rougher, 
more sluggish animals; the virtuous but not philosophical into 
gentle animals, and philosophers go to gods. However that may 
be, Socrates has learned not to care about pleasure and pain. He 
is calm in search of truth. 

Cebes and Simmias ponder over his words. Simmias draws a 
figure of the lyre and harmony; Cebes, one of a coat and its wearer; 
comparisons are drawn with the soul and the body. Is the soul the 
harmony of the body ? The pre-existence of ideas and the soul is 
before the body; it is a cause of it; but harmony is after an instru- 



ARGUMENT OF THE PH^DO. 61 

ment; an effect. Socrates does not consider the soul a harmony of 
the body. 

Socrates then draws a lesson from his youth. He had always 
been puzzled over the growth of things, of generation and destruc- 
tion. He heard a reading of Anaxagoras, that mind is the cause of 
all things. This spread new light upon his darkness. He then 
stoutly maintains that the existence of ideas proves the existence of 
the soul. He indulges at this point in a learned disquisition on 
the existence of the soul. He dwells upon the growth of the soul 
from life to death. His mind expands to dwell upon growth 
during the course of ages. In closing he cheers his hearers with a 
happy anticipation of the glories of future existence, for this brings 
companionship and converse with the gods. He mentions the 
pagan account of Hades and says he does not literally believe in 
this description but thinks there will be something like it. 

The closing irony about Asclepius is somewhat doubtful in its 
meaning. Perhaps he meant that death was health. 

Throughout the long discussion there runs through all the other 
arguments the one most powerful, that of the existence of eternal 
ideas, of which the soul is a partaker. But perhaps the most 
effective argument for immortality is the great Philosopher's 
gentleness and willingness to die. 



THE PH^DO 



PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE. 

ECHECRATES. SlMMIAS. CRITO. 

Ph^do. Cebes. The Jailer. 

Echecrates. Were you present, Phaedo, with Socrates 
that day when he drank the poison in prison ? or did you 
hear an account of it from any other? 

Phcedo. I myself, Echecrates, was present. 

Echec. What then was his discourse previous to his 
death ? and how did he die ? for I should be very glad to 
hear the account : for scarcely does any one of the Phlia- 
sian 1 citizens now visit Athens ; and it is some time since 
any stranger has arrived from thence who might afford us 
some clear information about these particulars. All in- 
deed that we heard was, that he died through drinking 
the poison ; but he who acquainted us with this had noth- 
ing further to say about other particulars of his death. 

Phczd. What ! did you not hear the manner in which 
he was tried? 

Echec. Yes : a certain person related this to us ; and 
we wondered, as his sentence was passed so long ago, that 
he should not die till a considerable time after. What, 
then, Phaedo, was the reason of this? 

Ph<zd. A certain fortune happened to him, Echecrates: 
for, the day before his trial, the stern of that ship was 
crowned which the Athenians send every year to Delos. 

1 Phlius, where Echecrates belonged, was a town of Sicyonia in Pelopon- 
nesus. 

63 



64 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

Echec. But what is the meaning of this? 

Phced. This is the ship, as the Athenians say, in 
which Theseus formerly carried the twice seven young 
children 1 to Crete, and saved both them and himself. 
The Athenians, therefore, as it is reported, then vowed 
to Apollo, that if the children were preserved, they would 
send every year a sacred embassy to Delos; which, from 
that time, they regularly send every year to the God. As 
soon, therefore, as the preparations for the sacred spec- 
tacle commence, the law orders that the city shall be puri- 
fied, and that no one shall be put to death by a public 
decree till the ship has arrived at Delos, and again re- 
turned to Athens. But this sometimes takes a long time 
in accomplishing, when the winds impede their passage ; 
but the festival itself commences when the priest of Apollo 
has crowned the stern of the ship. Now this, as I told 
you, took place on the day preceding the trial ; and on 
this account that length of time happened to Socrates in 
prison between his sentence and his death. 

Echec. And what, Phsedo, were the circumstances re- 
specting his death ? what were his sayings and actions ? 
and who of his familiars were present with him ? or would 
not the magistrates suffer that any should be admitted to 
him, so that he died deprived of the presence of his 
friends ? 

Phczd, By no means; but some, and indeed many, 
were present with him. 

Echec. Endeavor to relate all these particulars to us 
in the clearest manner, unless you have some business 
which may prevent you. 

Phced. But I am at leisure, and will endeavor to 

1 The tribute of victims for the Minotaur, which Theseus slew. 



THE PH^EDO. 65 

gratify your request : for indeed to call to mind Socrates, 
whether I myself speak or hear others, is to me always 
the most pleasant of all things. 

Echec, Truly, Phaedo, others who hear you will be 
affected in the same manner : but endeavor, as much as 
you are able, to narrate every circumstance in the most 
accurate manner. 

Phczd. And indeed I myself, who was present, was 
wonderfully affected ; for I was not influenced with pity, 
like one present at the death of a familiar : for this man, 
O Kchecrates, appeared to me to be blessed, when I con- 
sidered his manner and discourses, and his intrepid and 
generous death. Hence it appeared to me, that he did 
not descend to Hades without a divine destiny, but that 
there also he would be in a happy condition, if ever man 
was. On this account I was entirely uninfluenced with 
pity, though apparently I ought not to have been, on so 
mournful an occasion ; nor yet again was I influenced by 
pleasure through philosophical converse, as I used to be ; 
for our discourses were of this kind. But, to speak ingen- 
uously, a certain wonderful passion, and an unusual 
mixture of pleasure and grief, were present with me, 
produced by considering that he must in a very short time 
die. And, indeed, all of us who were present were nearly 
affected in the same manner, at one time laughing, and at 
another weeping : but this was eminently the case with 
one of us, Apollodorus; for you know the man, and his 
manner of behavior. 

Echec. How is it possible that I should not ? 

Phczd. He was remarkably affected in this manner ; 
and I myself, and others, experienced great trouble and 
confusion, 

5 



66 SELEC TIONS FROM PL A TO. 

Echec. Who then, Phgedo, happened to be present? 

Phced. Of native Athenians, Apollodorus, Critobulus, 
and his father Crito were present ; likewise Hermogenes, 
Epigenes, iEschines and Antisthenes. 1 And besides 
these, Ctesippus the Pseanian, Menexenus and some 
other Athenians were present : but Plato I think was 
sick. 

Echec. Were there no strangers? 

Phced. Yes : Simmias the Theban, Cebes and 
Phsedondes; and among the Megarensians, Euclid and 
Terpsion. 

Echec. But what ! were not Aristippus 2 and Cleom- 
brotus there? 

Phczd. By no means : for they were said to be at 
^Egina. 

Echec. Was any other person present? 

Phced. I think those I have mentioned were nearly 
all. 

Echec. Will you now then relate what were his dis- 
courses? 

Phced. I will endeavor to relate the whole to you 
from the beginning. For we were always accustomed to 
visit Socrates, myself and others meeting in the morning 
at the place where he was tried, for it was very near to 
the prison. Here we waited every day till the prison was 

1 Antisthenes, like Socrates in endurance and contempt of pleasure; a cynic; 
teacher of Diogenes. 

2 A philosopher of Cyrene, and founder of the Cyrenaic sect. What is here 
said concerning the absence of Aristippus and Cleombrotus is well explained 
by Demetrius in his book 7repl Ep/u.ryi'eia?. "Plato, he observes, says this in order 
to reprove Aristippus and Cleombrotus, who were feasting in JEgina at the time 
that Socrates was in prison, and did not sail to see their friend and master, 
though they were then at the entrance of the Athenian harbor. Plato, how- 
ever, does not clearly relate these particulars, because his narration would 
have been an open defamation,'' 



THE PH^DO. 67 

opened, discoursing among ourselves, for it was not 
opened very early in the morning; but, as soon as we 
could be admitted, we went to Socrates, and generally 
spent the whole day with him. And then, indeed, we 
met together sooner than usual ; for the day before, when 
we left the prison, w T e heard that the ship from Delos was 
returned. We determined, therefore, among ourselves, 
to come very early in the morning to the usual place ; and 
we met together accordingly : but when we arrived, the 
jailer who used to attend upon us, told us to wait, and 
not enter till he called us. For, says he, the eleven 
magistrates are now freeing Socrates from his bonds, and 
announcing to him that he must die to-day. But not long 
after this he returned, and ordered us to enter. When we 
entered, we found Socrates just freed from his fetters, but 
Xantippe (you know her) holding one of his children, 
and sitting by him. As soon, therefore, as Xantippe saw 
us, she began to lament in a most violent manner, and 
said such things as are usual with women in affliction ; and 
among the rest, Socrates, says she, this is the last time 
your friends will speak to you, or you to them. But 
Socrates looking upon Crito, Crito, says he, let some one 
take her home. Upon which some of Crito' s domestics 
led her away, beating herself, and weeping bitterly. But 
Socrates, sitting upright on the bed, drew up his leg, and 
rubbing it with his hand, said at the same time, What a 
wonderful thing is this, my friends, which men call the 
pleasant and agreeable ! and how admirably is it affected 
by nature towards that which appears to be its contrary, 
the painful! for they are unwilling to be present with us 
both together ; and yet, if any person pursues and receives 
the one, he is almost under a necessity of receiving the 



68 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

other, as if they were two bodies with a single head. 
And it seems to me, says he, that if JEsop had perceived 
this he would have composed a fable from it, and would 
have informed us, that Divinity, being willing to reconcile 
contending natures, but not being able to accomplish this 
design, conjoined their summits in a nature one and the 
same ; and that hence it comes to pass, that whoever par- 
takes of the one is soon after connected with the other. 
And this, as it appears, is the case with myself at present; 
for the pain which was before in my leg, through the 
bond, is now succeeded by a pleasant sensation. 

But here Cebes replying, said, By Zeus, Socrates, you 
have very opportunely caused me to recollect : for certain 
persons have asked me concerning those poems which you 
composed — viz., the Fables of yEsop which you versified, 
and your exordium to Apollo, and other pieces of com- 
position ; and, among the rest, Evenus lately inquired 
with what design you did this after coming here, when be- 
fore you have never attempted anything of the kind. If, 
therefore, you have any desire that I may have an answer 
ready for Evenus, when he again interrogates me on this 
occasion (and I am certain that he will do so), tell me 
what I must say to him. You may truly inform him, says 
he, Cebes, that I did not compose these verses with any 
design of rivaling him, or his poems (for I knew that this 
would be no easy matter); but that I might try to explore 
the meaning of certain dreams, and that I might fulfil my 
religious obligation, if this should happen to be the music 
which they have often ordered me to exercise. For in 
the past part of my life the same dream has often occurred 
to me, exhibiting at different times a different appearance, 
yet always advising me the same thing ; for it said, 



THE PH^DO. 69 

Socrates, make and exercise music. And indeed, in the 
former part of my life, I considered that this dream per- 
suaded and exhorted me respecting the very thing I was 
doing, in the same manner as runners in the races are ex- 
horted ; for, by persuading me to exercise music, it signi- 
fied that I should labor in philosophy, which is the greatest 
music. But now since my sentence has taken place, and 
the festival of the God has retarded my death, it appeared 
to me to be necessary that, if the music which the dream 
has so often exhorted me to undertake should happen to 
be of the ordinary sort, I should by no means resist its 
persuasions, but comply with the exhortation : for I con- 
sidered that it would be more safe for me not to depart 
from hence before I had cleared myself by composing 
verses, and obeying the dream. Thus, in the first place, 
I composed some verses in honor of the God to whom the 
present festival belongs ; but after the God, considering it 
necessary that he who designs to be a poet should make 
fables and not discourses, and knowing that I myself was 
not a mythologist, on these accounts I versified the fables 
of iEsop, which were at hand, and were known to me ; 
and began with those first that first presented themselves 
to my view. Give this answer, Cebes, to Hvenus : at the 
same time bid him farewell for me ; and tell him, if he is 
wise he will follow me. But I shall depart, as it seems, 
to-day ; for such are the orders of the Athenians. 

Upon this Simmias replied, What is this, Socrates, 
which you command me to tell Kvenus ? for I often meet 
with him ; and from what I know of him, I am certain 
that he will never willingly comply with your request. 

What, then, says Socrates, is not Bvenus a philoso- 
pher? 



70 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

To me he appears to be so, says Simmias. 

Both Bvenus, therefore, will be willing to follow me, 
and every one who is worthy to partake of philosophy ; 
not perhaps indeed by violently depriving himself of life, 
for this they say is unlawful. And at the same time, as 
he thus spoke, he withdrew his leg from the bed, and 
placed it on the ground ; and afterwards continued to dis- 
course with us, in a sitting posture, the remaining part of 
the time. Cebes, therefore, inquired of him, How is this 
to be understood, Socrates, that it is not lawful to commit 
suicide, and yet that a philosopher should be willing to 
follow one who is about to die ? 

What, says he, Cebes, have not you and Simmias heard 
your familiar Philolaus 1 discourse concerning things of 
this kind ? 

We have not, Socrates, heard anything clearly on this 
subject. 

But I, says Socrates, speak in consequence of having 
heard ; and what I have heard I will not enviously con- 
ceal from you. And perhaps it is becoming in the most 
eminent degree, that he who is about to depart thither 
should consider and mythologise about this departure : I 
mean, what kind of a thing we should think it to be. For 
what else can such a one be more properly employed 
about, till the setting of the sun? 2 

On what account then, Socrates, says Cebes, do they 
say that it is unlawful for a man to kill himself? for I 
myself have some time since heard from Philolaus, when 
he resided with us, and from some others, that it was not 

i A Pythagorean of Crotona. 

'* The law of Athens forbade the execution of the death penalty in the 
daytime; with a similar idea the philosophy of Pythagoras forbade any one 
to sleep in the day when nature, like the sun, should be active and energetic. 



THE PHs&DO. 71 

proper to commit such an action ; but I never heard any- 
thing clear upon the subject from any one. 

Prepare yourself, then, says Socrates, for perhaps you 
may be satisfied in this particular : and perhaps it may 
appear to you wonderful, if this alone should be the abso- 
lute truth, that it is better, not for some men only but for 
all, to die than to live ; and yet that these men must not, 
on pain of impiety, do good to themselves, but await some 
other benefactor. 

Then Cebes, gently laughing, Zeus knows that, says 
he, speaking in his own Boeotian tongue. 

For this indeed, says Socrates, appears to be irrational; 
and yet, perhaps, it is not so, but has a certain reason on 
its side. For the discourse which is delivered about these 
particulars, in the arcana of the mysteries, 1 that we are 
placed as in a certain prison secured by a guard, a?id that it 
is not proper for any one to free himself from this confine- 
ment, and make his escape, appears to me to be an assertion 
of great moment, and not eas)^ to be understood. But 
this appears to me, O Cebes, to be well said, that the gods 
take care of us, and that we who are men are one of 
the possessions belonging to the gods. Or does not this 
appear to you to be the case ? 

It does to me, says Cebes. 

Would not you, therefore, if any one of your servants 
should destroy himself, when at the same time you did 
not signify that you were willing he should die, would 
you not be angry with him ? and if you had any punish- 
ment, would you not chastise him? 

Entirely so, says he. 

1 This passage is generally referred to the Mysteries, from which we have 
an argument against suicide founded on a mystical doctrine of the divine origin 
of the body. 



72 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

Perhaps, therefore, it is not irrational to assert, that a 
man ought not to kill himself before Divinity lays him 
under a certain necessity of doing so, such as I am subject 
to at present. 

This, indeed, says Cebes, appears to be reasonable. 
But that which you said just now, Socrates, that philoso- 
phers would very readily be willing to die, appears to be 
absurd, if what we have asserted is agreeable to reason, 
that Divinity takes care of us, and that we are one of his 
possessions ; for it is irrational to suppose that the wisest 
men should not be grieved, when departing from that 
servitude in which they are taken care of by the gods, 
who are the best of governors. For such a one will by no 
means think that he shall be better taken care of when he 
becomes free : but some one who is deprived of intellect 
may perhaps think that he should fly from his master, and 
will not consider that he ought not to fly from a good 
master, but that he should by all means abide in his 
service. Hence he will depart from him in a most 
irrational manner : but he who is endowed with intellect 
will desire to live perpetually with one who is better than 
himself. And thus, Socrates, it is reasonable that the 
contrary of what you just now said should take place : for 
it is proper that the wise, when about to die, should be 
sorrowful, but that the foolish should rejoice. 

Socrates upon hearing this, seemed to me to be pleased 
with the reasoning of Cebes ; and looking upon us, Cebes, 
says he, never suffers anything to pass without investiga- 
tion, and is by no means willing to admit immediately the 
truth of an assertion. 

But indeed, says Simmias, Cebes, O Socrates, appears 
to me to say something now to the purpose. For with 



THE PH^DO. 73 

what design can men, truly wise, fly from masters who are 
better than themselves, and, without any reluctance, free 
themselves from their servitude ? And Cebes appears to 
me to direct his discourse to you, because you so easily 
endure to leave us, and those beneficent rulers the gods, 
as you yourself confess. 

You speak justly, says Socrates ; for I think you mean 
that I ought to make my defense, as if I was upon my 
trial. 

By all means, says Simmias. 

Be it so then, says Socrates : and I shall endeavor that 
this my apology may appear more reasonable to you than 
the other did to my judges. For, with respect to myself, 
says he, O Simmias and Cebes, unless I thought that I 
should depart, in the first place, to other 1 gods who are 
wise and good, and, in the next place, to men who have 
migrated from the present life, and are better than any 
among us, it would be wrong not to be troubled at death : 
but now believe for certain, that I hope to dwell with good 
men ; though this, indeed, I will not confidently assert : 
but that I shall go to gods who are perfectly good rulers, 
you may consider as an assertion which, if anything of 
the kind is so, will be strenuously affirmed by me. So 
that, on this account, I shall not be afflicted at dying, but 
shall entertain a good hope that something remains for 
the dead; and, as it was formerly said, that it will be 
much better hereafter for the good than the evil. 

What, then, Socrates, says Simmias, would you have 
departed with such a conception in your intellect, without 
communicating it to us ? Or will you not render us also 

1 By other gods, Socrates means such as are of an order superior to the 
ruling divinities of the world. In short, those gods are here signified that are 
unconnected with the body. 



74 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

partakers of it ? For it appears to me, that this will be 
a common good ; and at the same time it will be an 
apology for you, if you can persuade us to believe what 
you say. 

I will endeavor to do so, says he. But let us first at- 
tend to Crito : what is that he has for some time seemed 
anxious to say to me ? 

What else, says Crito, should it be, Socrates, except 
what he who is to give you the poison has long ago told 
me, that you ought to speak as little as possible? For he 
says that those who dispute become too much heated, and 
that nothing of this kind ought to be introduced with the 
poison, since those who do not observe this caution are 
sometimes obliged to drink the poison twice or thrice. 

Let him, says Socrates, only mind his business, and 
administer the poison twice ; and even, if occasion re- 
quires, thrice. 

I was almost certain, says Crito, that this would be 
your answer ; but he has been plaguing me to do this, as 
I said, some time since. 

Let him be, says Socrates ; but I am desirous of ren- 
dering to you, as my judges, the reason, as it appears to 
me, why a man who has truly passed his life in the exer- 
cise of philosophy should with great propriety be confident 
when about to die, and should possess good hopes of ob- 
taining the greatest advantages after death ; and in what 
manner this takes place I will endeavor, Simmias and 
Cebes, to explain : 

Those who are conversant with philosophy in a 
proper manner, seem to have concealed from others that 
the whole of their study is nothing else than how to die 



THE PH^EDO. 75 

and be dead. 1 If this then is true, it would certainly be 
absurd that those who have made this alone their study 
through the whole of life, should, when it arrives, be 
afflicted at a circumstance upon which they have before 
bestowed all their attention and labor. 

But here Simmias laughing, By Zeus, says he, Socrates, 
you cause me to laugh, though I am very far from desir- 
ing to do so at present : for I think that the multitude, if 
they heard this, would consider it as well said against 
philosophers ; and that men of the present day would per- 
fectly agree with you, that philosophers should in reality 
desire death, and that our fellow-citizens are by no means 
ignorant that they deserve it. 

And indeed, Simmias, they would speak the truth, ex- 
cept in asserting that they are not ignorant of it : for both 
the manner in which true philosophers desire to die, and 
how they are worthy of death, is concealed from them. 
But let us bid farewell to such as these, says he, and dis- 
course among ourselves : and to begin, Do you think that 
death is anything ? 

Simmias replied, Entirely so. 

Is it anything else than a liberation of soul from body ? 
and is not this to die, 2 for the body to be liberated from 
the soul, and to subsist apart by itself ? and likewise for 
the soul to be liberated from the body, and to be essentially 
separate. Is death anything else but this ? 

1 It has been well observed that to die differs from to be dead. For the 
cathartic philosopher dies in consequence of meditating death ; but the theo- 
retic philosopher is dead, in consequence of being separated from the passions. 

z The following is taken from Taylor : " Plato beautifully defines death 
to be a separation of the body from the soul, and of the soul from the body. 
For, with respect to souls that are enamored with body, the body is indeed 
separated from the soul, but not the soul from the body, because it is yet con- 
joined with it through habitude or alliance, from which those shadowy phan- 
toms are produced that wander about sepulchres.'' 



76 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

It is no other, says Simmias. 

Consider then, excellent man, whether the same things 
appear to you as to me ; for from hence I think we shall 
understand better the subjects of our investigation. Does 
it appear to you that the philosopher is a man who is 
anxiously concerned about things which are called plea- 
sures, such as meats and drinks? 

Not at all, Socrates, says Simmias. 

But what about the pleasures of love —does he care for 
them? 

By no means. 

Or does such a man appear to you to esteem other par- 
ticulars which regard the observance of the body, such as 
the acquisition of excellent garments and sandals, and 
other ornaments of the body? whether does he appear to 
you to esteem or despise such particulars, employing them 
only so far as an abundant necessity requires ? 

A true philosopher, says Simmias, appears to me to be 
one who will despise everything of this kind. 

Does it, therefore, appear to you, says Socrates, that 
the whole employment of such a one will not consist in 
things which regard the body, but in separating himself 
from the body as much as possible, and in converting him- 
self to his soul ? 

It does appear so to me. 

Is it not, therefore, first of all evident, in things of 
this kind, that a philosopher, in a manner far surpassing 
other men, separates his soul in the highest degree from 
communion with the body ? 

It appears so. 

And to the many, O Simmias, it appears that for him 
who accounts nothing of this kind pleasant, and who does 



THE PHy&DO. 77 

not partake of them, it is not worth while to live ; but that 
he nearly approaches to death who is not concerned about 
the pleasures of the body. 

You entirely speak the truth. 

But what with respect to the acquisition 1 of wisdom ? 
Is the body an impediment or not, if any one associates it 
in the investigation of wisdom? What I mean is this: 
Have sight and hearing in men any truth ? 2 or is the case 
such as the poets perpetually sing, that 

We nothing accurate or see or hear ? 

Though if these senses are neither accurate nor clear, by 
no means can the rest be so : for all the others are in a 
certain respect more depraved than these. Or does it not 
appear so to you ? 

Entirely so, says he. 

When then does the soul touch upon the truth ? for, 
when it endeavors to consider anything in conjunction with 
the body, it is evidently then deceived by the body. 

You speak the truth. 

Must not, therefore, something of reality become 
manifest to the soul in the energy of reasoning, if this is 
ever the case ? 

It must. 

But the soul then reasons best when it is disturbed by 
nothing belonging to the body, neither by hearing, nor 
sight, nor pain nor any pleasure, but subsists in the most 

« Socrates having shown from life that the philosopher is willing- to die, 
now proves this from knowledge as follows : The philosopher despises the 
senses : he who does this depises also the body, in which the senses reside : he 
who despises the body is averse to it : he who is averse to it separates himself 
from the body : and he who separates himself from the body is willing to die ; 
for death is nothing else than a separation of the soul from the body. 

2 Plato says that there is no truth in the senses, because they do not pro- 
perly know. 



7 8 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

eminent degree, itself by itself, bidding farewell to the 
body, and, as much as possible, neither communicating 
nor being in contact with it, extends itself towards real 
being? 

These things are so. 

Does not the soul of a philosopher, therefore, in these 
employments, despise the body in the most eminent de- 
gree, and, flying from it, seek to become essentially sub- 
sisting by itself ? 

It appears so. 

But what shall we say, Simmias, about such things as 
the following ? Do we say that the just itself^ is something 
or nothing ? 

By Zeus, we say it is something. 

And do we not also say, that the beautiful and the good 
are each of them something ? 

How is it possible we should not ? 

But did you ever at any time behold any one of these 
with your eyes ? 

By no means, says he. 

But did you ever touch upon these with any other cor- 
poreal sense (but I speak concerning all of them ; as for 
instance, about magnitude, health, strength, and, in one 
word, about the essence of all the rest, and which each 
truly possesses) ? Is then the most true nature of these 
perceived through the ministry of the body ? or rather shall 

1 Socrates having shown that the philosopher is willing to die, because he 
flies from the body, despising it; and having also shown this because he attends 
to the body no further than extreme necessity obliges him; he now also shows 
that he is willing to die, from a conversion to things more excellent. For he 
wishes to know ideas ; but it is impossible for the soul to know these while 
energising with the body, or having this communicating with it in the inves- 
tigation of them. If this then be the case, the soul will not receive, as its 
associate in investigation, either the body or the senses, or the instruments of 
sense, if it wishes to know things accurately, 



THE PHsEDO. 79 

we not say, that whoever among us prepares himself to 
think dianoetically [intellectually] in the most eminent 
and accurate manner about each particular object of his 
speculation, such a one will come nearest to the knowledge 
of each ? 

Entirely so. 

Will not he, therefore, accomplish this in the most 
pure manner, who in the highest degree betakes himself 
to each through his dianoetic power, neither employing 
sight in conjunction with the dianoetic energy, nor bring- 
ing in any other sense, together with his reasoning ; but 
who, exercising a pure dianoetic energy as it subsists, at 
the same time endeavors to hunt after everything which 
has true being by itself separate and pure ; and who in the 
most eminent degree is liberated from the eyes and ears, 
and in short from the whole body, as disturbing the soul, 
and not suffering it to acquire truth and wisdom by its 
conjunction? Will not such a man, Simmias, procure for 
himself real being, if this can ever be asserted of any one? 

You speak the truth, Socrates, says Simmias, in a 
transcendent manner. 

Is it not necessary, therefore, says Socrates, from 
hence, that an opinion of this kind should be present with 
genuine philosophers in such a manner, that they will 
speak among themselves as follows : In the consideration 
of things, this opinion, like a kind of path, leads us in 
conjunction with reason from the vulgar track, that, as 
long as we are connected with a body, and our soul is 
contaminated with such an evil, we can never sufficiently 
obtain the object of our desire; and this object we have 
asserted to be truth? For the body subjects us to innum- 
erable occupations through necessary aliment, and fills us 



80 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

with love, desire, fear, all various images, and a multitude 
of trifling concerns ; not to mention that, if we are invaded 
by certain diseases, we are hindered by them in our hunt- 
ing after real being ; so that, as it is said, we can never 
truly , and in reality, acquire wisdom through the body. 
For nothing else but the body and its desires cause wars, 
seditions and contests of every kind : for all wars arise 
through the possession of wealth ; and we are compelled to 
acquire riches through the body, becoming subservient to 
its cultivation ; so that on all these accounts we have no 
leisure for the exercise of philosophy. But this is the ex- 
tremity of all evils, that if at any time we are at leisure 
from its attendance, and betake ourselves to the specula- 
tion of anything, then invading us on all sides in our 
investigations, it causes agitations and tumults, and so 
vehemently impels us, that we are not able through its 
presence to perceive the truth ; but it is in reality demon- 
strated to us, that, if we are designed to know anything 
purely, we must be liberated from the body, and behold 
things with the soul itself. And then, as it appears, we 
shall obtain the object of our desire, and of which we pro- 
fess ourselves lovers — viz. , wisdom, when we are dead, as 
our discourse evinces; but by no means while we are alive: 
for, if we can know nothing purely in conjunction with 
the body, one of these two consequences must ensue, either 
that we can never possess knowledge, or that we must 
obtain it after death ; for then the soul will subsist apart 
by itself, separate from the body, but never before this 
takes place ; and while we live in the body, as it appears, 
we shall approach in the nearest manner possible to knowl- 
edge, if in the most eminent degree we have no associa- 
tion with the body, nor any communication with it (except 



THE PH^EDO. 8 1 

what the greatest necessity requires) , nor are filled with 
its nature, but purify ourselves from its defiling connec- 
tion, till Divinity itself dissolves our bonds. And thus 
being pure, and liberated from the madness of body, it is 
proper to believe that we shall then associate with others 
who are similarly pure, and shall through ourselves know 
everything genuine and sincere : and this perhaps is the 
truth itself ; for it is by no means lawful that the pure 
should be touched by that which is impure. And such, 
O Simmias, in my opinion, ought to be the discourse and 
sentiments of all such as are lovers of learning in a proper 
manner. Or does it not seem so to you ? 

It does, Socrates, more so than anything. 

If all this then, says Socrates, is true, my friend, much 
hope remains for him who arrives at that place to which I 
am now departing, that he shall there, if ever anywhere, 
sufficiently obtain that for the sake of which we take so 
much pains in the present life : so that the journey which 
is now assigned me will be accompanied with good hope ; 
as will likewise be the case with any other man who thinks 
that he ought to prepare his danoetic part in such a man- 
ner that it may become as it were pure. 

Entirely so, says Simmias. 

But does not purification consist in this, as we formerly 
asserted in our discourse : I mean in separating the soul 
from the body in the most eminent degree, and in accus- 
toming it to call together and collect itself essentially on 
all sides from the body, and to dwell as much as possible, 
both now and hereafter, alone by itself, becoming by this 
means liberated from the body as from detaining bonds? 

Entirely so, says he. 
6 



82 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

Is not death called a solution and separation of the 
soul from body ? 

Perfectly so, says he. 

But those alone who philosophise rightly, as we have 
said, always and especially long for solution of the soul : 
and this is the meditation of philosophers, a solution and 
separation of the soul from the body; or do you not 
think so? 

I do. 

Would it not, therefore, as I said at first, be ridiculous 
for a man who has so prepared himself in the present life 
as to approach very near to death, to live indeed in the 
manner we have described, and yet, when death arrives, 
be afflicted? would this not be ridiculous? 

How indeed should it not? 

In reality, therefore, says he, O Simmias, those who 
philosophise rightly will mediate how to die; and to be 
dead will be to them of all men a thing the least terrible. 
But from hence consider as follows : for if they are on all 
sides enemies to the body, but desire to possess the soul 
subsisting by itself, would it not be very irrational for 
them to be terrified and troubled when death approaches, 
and to be unwilling to depart to that place, where when 
they have arrived they may hope to enjoy that which they 
were lovers of in the present life (but they were lovers of 
wisdom), and to be liberated from the association of that 
nature to which they were always inimical? Or do you 
think it possible, that many should be willing, of their 
own accord, to descend into Hades, allured by the hope 
of seeing and conversing with departed beautiful youths, 
wives and children whom they have loved ; and that the 
true lover of wisdom, who has exceedingly nourished this 



THE PH^DO. 83 

hope, that he shall never possess wisdom as he ought 
anywhere but in Hades, should be afflicted when dying, 
and should not depart thither with readiness and delight ? 
For it is necessary, my friend, to think in this manner of 
one who is a true philosopher ; since such a one is very 
much of opinion that he shall never anywhere, but in that 
place, acquire the possession of wisdom with purity ; and 
if this be the case, would it not be very irrational, as we 
just now said, for a man of this kind to be terrified at 
death ? 

Very much so, by Zeus, says he. 

This then will be an argument sufficient to convince 
you, that he whom you behold to be afflicted, when about 
to die, is not a philosopher, but a lover of body ; and this 
same person is a lover of riches and honors, either desir- 
ing the possession of one of these, or of both. 

The case is entirely so, says he, as you represent it. 

Does not then, O Simmias, that which is called forti- 
tude eminently belong to philosophers ? 

Entirely so, says he. 

Does not temperance also, which even the multitude 
thus denominate as a virtue, through which we are not 
agitated by desires, but regard them with moderation and 
contempt ; does it not, I say, belong to those only who 
despise the body in the most eminent degree, and live in 
the exercise of philosophy ? 

It is necessary, says he. 

For, if you are willing, says Socrates, to consider the 
fortitude and temperance of others, they will appear to 
you to be absurdities. 

But how, Socrates? 



84 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

You know, says he, that all others look upon death as 
a very great evil. 

In the highest degree so, says he. 

And those who are bold among these, sustain death 
when they do sustain it, through the dread of greater 
evils. 

They do so. 

All men, therefore, except philosophers, are bold 
through fearing and dread, though it is absurd that any 
one should be bold through fear or cowardice. 

Entirely so. 

But what, are not the moderate among these affected in 
the same manner ? and are they not temperate by a certain 
intemperance ? Though this is in a certain respect impos- 
sible, yet a passion similar to this happens to them with 
respect to this foolish temperance : for, fearing to be de- 
prived of other pleasures which at the same time they 
desire, they abstain from the one being vanquished by 
others. And though they call intemperance a subjection 
to pleasures; yet at the same time it happens to them, 
that, being vanquished by certain pleasures, they control 
others; and this is similar to what I just now said, that 
after a certain manner they become temperate through 
intemperance. 

It seems so, indeed. 

But, O blessed Simmias, this is by no means the right 
road to virtue, to change pleasures for pleasures, pains for 
pains, fear for fear, and the greater for the lesser, like 
pieces of money : but that alone is the proper coin, I 
mean wisdom, for which all these ought to be changed. 
And indeed, for the sake of this, and with this every- 
thing must in reality be bought and sold, both fortitude 



THE PH^DO. 85 

and temperance, justice, and, in one word, true virtue, 
which subsists with wisdom, whether pleasures and pains, 
and everything else of this kind, are present or absent: but 
if these are separated from wisdom, and changed one with 
another, such virtue does not merit to be called even a 
shadowy description, but is in reality servile, and possesses 
nothing salutary and true. But that which is in reality 
true virtue is a purification from everything of this kind ; 
and temperance and justice, fortitude, and thought itself, 
are each of them a certain purification. And those who 
instituted the Mysteries for us appear to have had a true 
and deep meaning when they signified formerly, in an 
obscure manner, that whoever descended into Hades uniniti- 
ated, and without being a partaker of the Mysteries, should 
be plunged into mire; but that whoever arrived there, purified 
and initiated, should dwell with the gods. For, as it is said 
by those who write about the Mysteries, 

The thyrsus-bearers numerous are seen, 
But few the Bacchuses have always been. 

These few are, in my opinion, no other than those who 
philosophise rightly ; and that I may be ranked in the 
number of these, I shall leave nothing unattempted, but 
exert myself in all possible ways. But whether or not my 
exertions have been properly directed, and whether I have 
accomplished anything, I think, if Divinity pleases, I shall 
clearly know very shortly when I arrive thither. And 
this, says he, Simmias and Cebes, is my apology, why 
upon leaving you, and the rulers of the present life, I 
ought not to be afflicted and indignant, since I am per- 
suaded that I shall there meet with masters and compan- 
ions not less good than such as are here. This indeed is 



86 SELECTIONS FROM PLATO. 

incredible to many ; but I am well content if my apology 
shall have more influence with you than with the judges 
of the Athenians. 

When Socrates had thus spoken, Cebes, renewing the 
discourse, said, Other things, Socrates, appear to me to be 
well spoken ; but what you have asserted about the soul 
will produce in men much incredulity, who think, when it 
is liberated from the body, that it is no longer anywhere, 
but that, on that very day in which a man dies, it is 
destroyed and perishes, and this immediately as it is freed 
from the body; 1 and, besides this, that on its departure it 
becomes dissipated like wind or smoke, makes its escape, 
and flies away, and is no longer anywhere : for if it re- 
mained anywhere essentially collected in itself, and liber- 
ated from those evils which you have now enumerated, 
there would be an abundant and fair hope, Socrates, that 
what you have asserted is true. But it will perhaps 
require no small persuasion and faith, in order to be per- 
suaded that the soul remains, though the man dies, and 
that it possesses a certain power and thought. 

You speak the truth, Cebes, sa}^s Socrates; but what 
shall we do ? Are you willing that we should discourse 
about these particulars, whether it is likely that this 
should be the case with the soul, or not ? 

Indeed, says Cebes, I shall hear with great pleasure 
your opinion on this subject ? 

For I do not think, answered Socrates, that, any one 
who should hear this discussion , even though he should 
be a comic poet, could say that I trifled, and discoursed 
about things not accommodated to my condition. If it is 
agreeable to you, therefore, and it is requisite to investi- 

i The doctrine of annihilation. 



THE PHs&DO. 87 

gate these particulars, let us consider whether the souls of 
dead men survive in Hades, or not. 

The assertion indeed, which we now call to mind, is an 
ancient one, I mean that souls departing from hence exist 
in Hades, and that they again return hither, and are gen- 
erated from the dead. 1 And if the case is such, that living 
natures are again generated from the dead, can there be 
any other consequence than that our souls are there ? for 
they could not be again generated if they had no subsist- 
ence ; and this will be sufficient argument that these 
things are so, if it is really evident that the living can 
not be generated from anything else than the dead. But, 
if this is not the case, it will be necessary to adduce some 
other reason. 

Entirely so, says Cebes. 

You should not, therefore, says he, consider this asser- 
tion with respect to men alone, if you wish to learn with 
facility ; but we should survey it as connected with all 
animals and plants, and in one word, with everything 
which is endued with generation. And not all things, 
therefore so generated, that they are produced no other- 
wise than contraries from contraries, I mean those which 
have any contrary? as the beautiful is contrary to the 
base, and the just to the unjust ; and a thousand other 
particulars subsist in the same manner. We should con- 
sider, therefore, whether it is necessary, respecting every- 
thing which has a contrary, that this contrary should be 
generated from nothing else than that which is its con- 
trary. As for instance, is it not necessary that, when 
anything becomes greater, it should become so from being 
before smaller ? 

1 The doctrine of generation of life through death. 



88 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

It is so, says he. 

And is not the weaker generated from the stronger, 
and the swifter from the slower ? 

Entirely so. 

But what if anything becomes worse, must it not be- 
come so from the better ? and if more just, must it not be 
generated from the more unjust ? 

How should it not ? 

We have then, says he, sufficiently determined this, 
that everything is thus generated — viz., contraries from 
contraries. 

Entirely so. 

But what, is there anything among these which has a 
middle subsistence between both (since all contraries are 
two), so as to cause two generations from this to that, 
and from that again to this? for between the greater thing 
and the lesser thing there is an increasing and a diminu- 
tion ; and hence we say that the one is increased, but the 
other diminished. 

It is so, says he. 

And must not to be separated and mingled, to be 
cooled and heated, and everything in the same manner, 
though sometimes we do not distinguish the several par- 
ticulars by names, must they not in reality be everywhere 
thus circumstanced, be generated from each other, and 
pass by generation into one another ? 

Entirely so, says he. 

What then, says Socrates, is there anything contrary 
to the being alive, as sleeping is contrary to waking ? 

Entirely so, says he. 

But what is this contrary ? 

To be dead. 



THE PH^DO. 89 

Are not these, therefore, generated from each other, 
since they are contraries? and since they are two, are 
there not two processes of generation between them ? 

How should there not ? 

I will, therefore, says Socrates, tell you what one of 
these conjunctions is which I have just now spoken of, 
and what its generations are ; do you tell me what the 
other is. But I say, that the one of these is to sleep, but 
the other to awake; and from sleeping awaking is gener- 
ated, and from awaking sleeping ; and the generations of 
these are on the one hand to be laid asleep, and on the 
other to be roused. Have I sufficiently explained this to 
you or not ? 

Perfectly so. 

Do you, therefore, says he, inform me, in a similar 
manner, concerning life and death. Do you not say that 
living is the contrary of to be dead f 

I do. 

And that they are generated from each other ? 

Certainly. 

What then is generated from that which is alive ? 

That which is dead, says he. 

But what, says Socrates, is generated from the deadf 

It is necessary to confess, says he, that this must be 
the liviiig. 

From the dead, therefore, says he, O Cebes, living 
things, and men who are alive, are generated. 

It appears so, says he. 

Our souls, therefore, says Socrates, subsist in Hades. 

So it seems. 

Is not, therefore, one of the processes of generation sub- 



9 o SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

sisting about these manifest? for to die is, I think, suffi- 
ciently clear ; is it not ? 

Entirely so, says he. 

What then shall we do ? shall we not render back a 
contrary generation in its turn, but say that nature is de- 
fective and lame in this particular ? Or is it necessary to 
assign a certain contrary process to the being dead f 

Entirely so, says he. 

But what is this ? 

To be restored back again to life. 

But, says Socrates, if there is such a thing as to revive 
again, will not this reviving be a generation from the dead 
to the living ? 

Perfectly so. 

This then is agreed upon by us, that the living are 
generated from the dead no less than the dead from the 
living : but, this being the case, it is a sufficient argument 
to prove that the souls of the dead must necessarily exist 
somewhere, from whence they may again be generated. 

It appears to me, says he, Socrates, that this must nec- 
essarily follow from what has been admitted. 

Take notice, then, says he, O Cebes ! that we have not 
unjustly made these concessions, as it appears to me : for 
if other things, when generated, were not always restored 
in the place of others, revolving as it were in a circle, but 
generation subsisted according to a right line, proceeding 
from one thing alone into its opposite, without recurring 
again to the other, and making an inflection, you know, 
that all things would at length possess the same form, 
would be affected with the same passion, and would cease 
to be generated. 

How do you say ? says he. 



THE PHsEDO. 91 

It is by no means difficult, replies Socrates, to under- 
stand what I assert ; but just as if there should be such a 
thing as falling asleep without recurring again to a state 
of waking, generated from a sleepy condition, you know 
that all things would at length exhibit the delusions of 
Endymion, 1 and nothing would be anything any more, be- 
cause everything would suffer the same as happened to 
him — viz., would be laid asleep. And if all things went 
on being united, without ever being separated, the doc- 
trine of Anaxagoras would soon be verified ; for all things 
would be one confused mass. In the same manner, my 
dear Simmias, if all such things as participate of life 
should die, and after they are dead should abide in that 
lifeless form, and not revive again, would there not be a 
great necessity that all things should at length die, and 
that nothing should live? for if living beings are gener- 
ated from other things, and living beings die, how can it 
be otherwise but that all things must be extinguished 
through being dead ? 

It appears to me, Socrates, says Cebes, that it cannot 
be otherwise ; and in my opinion you perfectly speak the 
truth. 

For to me, Cebes, says Socrates, it seems that nothing 
is so certain, and that we have not assented to this 
through deception; but that there is such a thing in 
reality as reviving again ; that the living are generated 
from the dead ; that the souls of the dead have a subsist- 
ence ; and that the condition of the good after this life will 
be better than at present ; but of the evil, worse. 

But, says Cebes, interrupting him, according to that 

' Endymion, the beautiful youth, with whom the goddess Diana fell in 
love. Zeus caused the youth to fall into an everlasting sleep, but allowed him 
to retain his beauty. 



92 SELECTIONS FROM PLATO. 

doctrine, Socrates, which you are frequently accustomed 
to employ (if it is true), that learning, with respect to us, 
is nothing else than reminiscence ; according to this, it is 
necessary that we must have learned the things which we 
now call to mind in some former period of time. But this 
is impossible, unless our soul subsisted somewhere before 
it took up its residence in this human form ; so that from 
hence the soul will appear to be a certain immortal nature. 

But Cebes, says Simmias, interrupting him, recall into 
my memory what demonstrations there are of these 
particulars; for I do not very much remember them at 
present. 

The truth of this, says Cebes, is evinced by one argu- 
ment, and that a most beautiful one; that men, when 
interrogated, if they are but interrogated properly, will 
speak about everything correctly. At the same time, they 
could never do this unless science and right reason resided 
in their natures. And, in the second place, if any one 
leads them to diagrams, 1 or anything of this kind, he will 
in these most clearly discover that this is really the case. 

But if you are not persuaded from this, Simmias, says 
Socrates, see if, from considering the subject in this 
manner, you will perceive as we do. For you do not 
understand how that which is called learning is remini- 
scence. 

I do not disbelieve it, says Simmias ; but I desire to be 
informed concerning this, which is the subject of our dis- 
course, I mean reminiscence ; and indeed, from what 
Cebes has endeavored to say, I almost now remember, and 

1 Diagrams — that is, geometrical figures. Cebes seems to mean that the 
obvious and necessary quality of geometrical truths implies some cognition of 
them prior to the experience of the present life. In point of fact it does more, 
it implies something prior to all experience. 



THE PH^.DO. 93 

am persuaded : but nevertheless I would at present hear 
how you attempt to support this opinion. 

We defend it then, says Socrates, as follows: we con- 
fess without doubt, that if any one calls anything to mind, 
it is necessary that at some time or other he should have 
previously known this. 

Entirely so, says he. 

Shall we not confess this also, says Socrates, that when 
science is produced in us, after some particular manner, it 
is reminiscence? But I mean by a particular manner, 
thus : If any one, upon seeing or hearing anything, or 
apprehending it through the medium of any other sense, 
should not onry know it, but should also think upon some- 
thing else, of which there is not the same, but a different 
science, should we not justly say, that he recollects or re- 
members the particular, of which he receives a mental 
conception ? 

How do you mean ? 

Thus, says Socrates : In a certain respect the science 
of a man is different from that of a lyre. 

How should it not ? 

Do you not, therefore, know that lovers when they see 
a lyre, or a vestment or anything else which the objects 
of their affection were accustomed to use, no sooner know 
the lyre, than they immediately receive in their intellec- 
tual part the form of the beloved person to whom the lyre 
belonged ? But this is no other than reminiscence : just 
as any one, upon seeing Simmias, often recollects Cebes ; 
and in a certain respect an infinite number of such partic- 
ulars continually occur. 1 

An infinite number indeed, by Zeus, says Simmias. 

i Association of ideas. 



94 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

Is not then, says Socrates, something of this kind a 
certain reminiscence; and then especially so, when any 
one experiences this affection about things which, through 
time, and ceasing to consider them, he has now forgotten? 

Entirely so, says Simmias. 

But what, says Socrates, does it happen, that when 
any one sees a painted horse and a painted lyre, he calls 
to mind a man ? and that when he beholds a picture of 
Simmias, he recollects Cebes? 

Entirely so. 

And will it not also happen, that on seeing a picture of 
Simmias he will recollect Simmias himself ? 

It certainly will happen so, says he. 

Does it not therefore follow, that in all these instances 
reminiscence partly takes place from things similar, and 
partly from such as are dissimilar ? 

It does. 

But when any one recollects anything from similars, 
must it not also happen to him, that he must know whether 
this similitude is deficient in any respect, as to likeness, 
from that particular of which he has the remembrance ? 

It is necessary, says he. 

Consider then, says Socrates, if the following partic- 
ulars are thus circumstanced. Do we say that there is 
such a thing as the Equal? I do not say one piece of 
wood to another, nor one stone to another, nor anything 
else of this kind ; but do we say that the equal itself, 
which is something different from all these, is something 
or nothing ? 

We say it is something, by Zeus, Socrates, says Sim- 
mias, and that most confidently. 



THE PH^DO. 95 

Have we also a scientific knowledge of that which is 
equal itself? 

Entirely so, says he. 

But from whence do we receive the science of it ? Is 
it not from the particulars we have just now spoken of — 
viz., on seeing wood, stones or other things of this kind, 
which are equals, do we not form a conception of that 
equal which is different from these? But consider the 
affair in this manner : Do not equal stones and pieces of 
wood, although they remain the same, at one time appear 
equal, and at another not? 

Entirely so. 

But what, can equals themselves ever appear to you 
unequal? or can equality seem to be inequality? 

By no means, Socrates. 

These equals, therefore, are not the same with the 
equal itself. 

By no means, Socrates, as it appears to me. 

But from these equals, says he, which are different 
from the equal itself, you at the same time understand 
and receive the science of the equal itself. 

You speak most true, says he. 

Is it not, therefore, either similar to these or dis- 
similar? 

Entirely so. 

But indeed, says Socrates, this is of no consequence : 
for while, in consequence of seeing one thing, you under- 
stand another, from the view of this, whether it is dis- 
similar or similar, it is necessary that this conception of 
another thing should be reminiscence. 

Entirely so. 

But what will you determine concerning this? says 



96 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

Socrates. Do we suffer anything of this kind respecting 
the equality in pieces of wood, and other such equals as 
we have just now spoken of ? and do they appear to us to 
be equal in the same manner as the equal itself ? and is 
something or nothing wanting, through which they are 
less equal than the equal itself ? 

There is much wanting, says he. 

Must we not, therefore, confess, that when any one, 
on beholding some particular thing, understands that he 
wishes this, which I now behold, to be such as something 
else is, but that it is deficient, and falls short of its perfec- 
tion ; must we not confess that he who understands this, 
necessarily had a previous knowledge of that to which he 
asserts this to be similar, but in a defective degree ? 

It is necessary. 

What then, do we feel something of this kind or not 
about equals and the equal itself ? 

Perfectly so. 

It is necessary, therefore, that we must have pre- 
viously known the equal itself before that time, in which, 
from first seeing equal things, we understood that we 
desired all these to be such as the equal itself, but that 
they had a defective subsistence. 

It is so. 

"But this also we must confess, that we neither under- 
stood this, nor are able to understand it, by any other 
means than either through the sight, or the touch, or some 
other of the senses. 

I speak in the same manner about all these. For they 
are the same, Socrates, with respect to that which your 
discourse wishes to evince. 

From the senses then we come to understand that all 



THE PHsEDO. 97 

equals in sensible objects aspire after the equal itself \ 
and are deficient from its perfection. Or how shall we 
say ? In this manner : Before we begin to see, or hear, 
and to perceive other things, it necessarily follows, that 
we must in a certain respect have received the science of 
the equal itself, so as to know what it is, or else we could 
never refer the equals among sensibles to the equal itself, 
and be convinced that all these desire to become such as 
the equal itself, but fall short of its perfection. 

This, Socrates, is necessary, from what has been pre- 
viously said. 

But do we not, as soon as we are born, see and hear, 
and possess the other senses ? 

Entirely so. 

But we have said it is necessary that prior to these we 
should have received the science of the equal itself. 

Certainly. 

We must necessarily, therefore, as it appears, have re- 
ceived it before we were born. 

It appears so. 

If, therefore, receiving this before we were born, we 
were born possessing it ; we both knew prior to our birth, 
and as soon as we were born, not only the equal, the 
greater, and the lesser, but everything of this kind: for 
our discourse at present is not more concerning the equal 
than the beautiful, the good, the just, and the holy, and in 
one word, about everything which we mark with the 
signature of that which is, both in our interrogations when 
we interrogate, and in our answers when we reply : so 
that it is necessary we should have received the science of 
all these before we were born. 

All this is true. 

7 



98 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

And if, since we receive these sciences, we did not for- 
get each of them, we should always be born knowing, and 
should always know them, through the whole course of 
our life : for to know is nothing else than this, to retain 
the science which we have received, and not to lose it. 
Or do we not call oblivion the loss of science ? 

Entirely so, says he, Socrates. 

But if, receiving science before we were born, we lose 
it at the time of our birth, and afterwards, through ex- 
ercising the senses about these particulars, receive back 
again those sciences which we once before possessed, will 
not that which we call learning be a recovery of our own 
proper science ? and shall we not speak rightly when we 
call this a kind of reminiscence ? 

Entirely so. 

For this appears to be possible, that when any one 
perceives anything, either by seeing or hearing, or em- 
ploying any other sense, he may at the same time know 
something different from this, which he had forgotten, 
and to which this is similar, or to which it approaches, if 
it is dissimilar. So that, as I said, one of these two 
things must be the consequence : either that we were born 
knowing these, and possess a knowledge of all of them, 
through the whole of our life : or that we only remember 
what we are said to learn afterwards ; and thus learning 
will be reminiscence. 

The case is perfectly so, Socrates. 

Which, therefore, will you choose, Simmias : that we 
are born knowing, or that we afterwards remember the 
particulars of which we formerly received the science ? 

At present, Socrates, I have no choice. 

But what will be your choice in the following instance, 



THE PH^.DO. 99 

and what will be your opinion about it? Can a man, who 
possesses science, render a reason concerning the objects 
of his knowledge, or not? 

There is a great necessity, says he, Socrates, that he 
should. 

And does it also appear to you, that all men can ren- 
der a reason of the particulars concerning which we have 
just now spoken ? 

I wish they could, says Simmias ; but I am much more 
afraid that to-morrow at this hour there will no longer be 
any one here capable of doing this. 

You do not therefore think, Simmias, that all men 
know these particulars ? 

By no means. 

They remember, therefore, the things which they have 
once learned. 

It is necessary. 

But when did our souls receive this science? for they 
did not receive them from' those from whom we are 
born men. 

Certainly not. 

Before this period, therefore. 

Certainty. 

Our souls, therefore, Simmias, had a subsistence before 
they were in a human form, separate from bodies, and 
possessed intelligence. 

Unless, Socrates, we received these sciences while we 
were making our entrance into the present life ; for that 
space of time is yet left for us. 

Let it be so, my friend. But in what other time did 
we lose these? for we were not born possessing them, as 
we have just now acknowledged. Did we lose them at 



ioo SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

the very time in which we received them ? Or can you 
mention any other time? 

By no means, Socrates : but I did not see that I spoke 
nothing to the purpose. 

Will then the case remain thus for us, Simmias ? for if 
those things have a subsistence which we perpetually pro- 
claim — viz., a certain something beautiful and good, and 
every such essence ; and if we refer to this all sensible 
objects, as finding it to have a prior subsistence, and to be 
ours, and assimulate these to it, as images to their exem- 
plar; it is necessary that, as these essences have a sub- 
sistence, so likewise that our soul should have subsisted 
before we were born : but if these are not, this discourse 
will have been undertaken in vain. Is it not so ? and is 
there not an equal necessity, both that these should have 
a subsistence, and that our souls should have had a being 
before we were born, and that the one cannot be without 
the other? 

The same necessity, Socrates, says Simmias, appears 
to me to take place in a most transcendent manner ; and 
the discourse flies to a beautiful circumstance, I mean the 
conjoined subsistence of our soul before we were born, 
and of that essence which you now speak of. For I pos- 
sess nothing which is so clear to me as this, that all such 
things as the beautiful and the good subsist, in the most 
eminent degree, together with everything else which you 
mention ; and, with respect to myself, it is sufficiently 
demonstrated. 

But how does it appear to Cebes ? says Socrates : for 
it is necessary that Cebes also should be persuaded. 

In my opinion he is sufficiently so, says Simmias, al- 
though he is the most resolute of all men in not assenting 



THE PHA1D0. 101 

to what is said. Yet I think he he is sufficiently per- 
suaded that odr soul had a subsistence before we were 
born. But whether or not the soul remains after death, 
does not appear to me, Socrates, says he, to be yet demon- 
strated ; but that doubt of the multitude, which Cebes 
mentioned, still presses hard upon me, whether, when a 
man dies, the soul is not dissipated, and this is the end 
of its existence. For what hinders but that it may be 
born, and may have had a subsistence elsewhere, and this 
before it came into a human body ; and yet, after it de- 
parts, and is liberated from this body, may then die and 
be corrupted ? 

You speak well, Simmias, says Cebes ; for it appears 
that the half only of what was necessary has been demon- 
strated, I mean that our soul subsisted before we were 
born ; but it is necessary that you should demonstrate, 
besides this, that it no less subsists after we are dead, 
than it did before we were born, in order that, the demon- 
stration may be complete. 

This, Simmias and Cebes, says Socrates, is even now 
demonstrated, if you are only willing to connect into one 
and the same the present discourse, and that which we be- 
fore assented to ; I mean that every vital nature is gener- 
ated from that which is dead. For if the soul had a prior 
subsistence, and it is necessary when it proceeds into the 
present life, and is generated man, that it should be gen- 
erated from nothing else than death, and to be dead ; how 
is it not necessary that it should also subsist after death, 
since it is requisite that it should be generated again ? Its 
existence, thereafter, after death, is even now, as I said, 
demonstrated. But you and Simmias would gladly, it ap- 
pears, search into the subject still further. You are 



102 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

afraid, like boys, lest on the soul's departure from the 
body the winds should tear it in pieces, and widely dis- 
perse it, — especially if any one should die during a stormy 
blast, and not when the heavens are serene ! 

Upon this Cebes laughing, Endeavor, says he, O 
Socrates, to persuade us of the contrary, as if we were 
afraid, or rather as if not we were afraid, but, perhaps, 
some boy among us, 1 by whom circumstances of this kind 
may be dreaded : him, therefore, we should endeavor to 
persuade not to be terrified at death, as if it were some 
dreadful spectre. 

But it is necessary, sa}^s Socrates, to charm him every 
day till he becomes well. 

But from whence, says he, O Socrates, can a man 
acquire skill in such enchantment, since you are about to 
leave us? 

Greece, says he, Cebes, is very spacious, in some part 
of which good men may be found : and there are many 
barbarian nations, all which must be wandered over, in- 
quiring after an enchanter of this kind, without sparing 
either riches or labor, as there is nothing for which 
wealth can be more seasonably bestowed. But it is neces- 
sary that 3^ou should inquire among yourselves ; for per- 
haps you will not easily find any one who is more able to 
accomplish this than yourselves. 

Let these things be so, says Cebes : but, if you please, 
let us return from whence we made this digression. 

It will be agreeable to me, says Socrates: for how 
should it not be so? 

You speak well, says Cebes. 

Some such thing, therefore, says Socrates, we ought to 

i Some boyish spirit in us. 



THE PHs£DO. 103 

inquire of ourselves — viz., what is naturally affected by 
dissolution ; and respecting what we ought to fear, lest 
this should take place ; and to whom a fear of this kind is 
proper ; and after this, we should consider whether it is 
soul or not ; and, as the result of these speculations, 
should either be confident or fearful concerning our soul. 

You speak true, says he. 

Is it not, therefore, natural to that which is collected 
together, and a composite, that it should be dissolved so 
far as it is a composite ; and that, if there is anything 
without composition, to this alone, if to any other, it be- 
longs not to suffer affections of this kind? 

This, says Cebes, appears to me to be the case. 

But does it not follow, that things which always sub- 
sist according to the same, and in a similar manner, are 
in the most eminent degree incomposites ; but that such 
things as subsist differently at different times, and never 
according to the same, are composites? 

To me it appears so. 

Let us return, therefore, says he, to the particulars of 
our former discourse : Whether is essence itself (which 
both in our inquiries and answers we established as hav- 
ing a being) that which always subsists similarly, and ac- 
cording to the same, or that which subsists differently at 
different times? And does the equal itself, the beautiful 
itself, and everything which truly is, ever receive any 
kind of mutation ? Or does not everything which always 
truly is, and has a uniform subsistence, essentially abide 
in a similar manner according to the same, and never in 
any respect receive any mutation ? 

It is necessary, Socrates, says Cebes, that it should 
subsist similarly, and according to the same. 



104 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

But what shall we say concerning many beautiful 
things, such as men, horses, garments or other things of 
this kind, which are either equal or beautiful ; and of all 
such as are synonymous to these ? Do these also subsist 
according to the same, or rather are they not entirely con- 
trary to those, so that they neither subsist similarly accord- 
ing to the same, either with respect to themselves or to 
one another, or, in one word, in any manner whatever? 

These, says Cebes, never subsist in a similar condi- 
tion. 

These, therefore, may be touched, may be seen and 
perceived by the other senses ; but those natures which 
always subsist according to the same, cannot be appre- 
hended by any other means than the discursive energy of 
the intellectual power. But things of this kind are invisi- 
ble, and cannot be seen. 

You speak most truly, said Cebes. 

Are you willing, therefore, says he, that we should 
establish two species of beings, the one visible, and the 
other invisible. 

Iyet us establish them, sa} r s he. 

And that the invisible subsists always according to the 
same, but the visible never according to the same. 

And this also, says he, we will establish. 

Come then, says Socrates, is there anything else be- 
longing to us, than on the one hand body, and on the 
other soul ? 

Nothing else, says he. 

To which species, therefore, shall we say the body is 
more similar and allied ? 

It is manifest to every one, says he, that it is allied to 
the visible species. 



THE PHsEDO. 105 

But what shall we say of the soul ? Is it visible, or 
invisible ? 

It is certainly not visible to men, Socrates, says he. 

But we speak of things which are visible or not so, with 
respect to the nature of men. Or do you think we speak 
of things visible to any other nature? 

Of those which regard the nature of men. 

What then shall we say respecting the soul, that it is 
visible, or cannot be seen ? 

That it cannot be seen. 

The soul, therefore, is more similar to the invisible 
species than the body, but the body is more similar to the 
visible. 

It is perfectly necessary it should be so, Socrates. 

And have we not also formerly asserted this, that the 
soul, when it employs the body in the speculation of any- 
thing, either through sight, or hearing, or some other 
sense (for to speculate through sense is to speculate through 
body), then, indeed, it is drawn by the body to things 
which never subsist according to the same, wanders and is 
agitated, and becomes giddy like one intoxicated, through 
passing into contact with things of this kind ? 

Entirely so. 

But when it speculates anything itself by itself, then it 
departs to that which is pure, eternal and immortal, and 
which possesses a sameness of subsistence : and, as being 
allied to such a nature, it perpetually becomes united with 
it, when it subsists alone by itself, and as often as it may : 
and then, too, it rests from its wanderings, and is ever the 
same being concerned and united with things that are ever 
the same; and this passion of the soul is denominated 
wisdom. 



io6 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

You speak, says he, Socrates, in every respect beauti- 
fully and true. 

To which species, therefore, of things, formerly and 
now spoken of, does the soul appear to you to be more 
similar and allied? 

It appears to me, Socrates, says he, that every one, 
and even the most indocile, must admit, in consequence of 
this method of reasoning, that the soul is both totally and 
universally more similar to that which subsists perpetually 
the same, than to that which does not so. 

But to which is the body most similar ? 

To the other species. 

But consider also as follows : that, since soul and body 
subsist together, nature commands that the one should be 
subservient and obey, but that the other should rule and 
possess dominion. And in consequence of this, which 
again of these appear to you to be similar to a divine 
nature, and which to the mortal nature ? Or does it not 
appear to you that the divine nature is essentially adapted 
to govern and rule, but the mortal to be governed and be 
subservient ? 

To me it does so. 

To which, therefore, is the soul similar ? 

It is manifest, Socrates, that the soul is similar to the 
divine, but the body to the mortal nature. 

But consider, says he, Cebes, whether, from all that 
has been said, these conclusions will result to us, that the 
soul is most similar to the divine, immortal, intelligible, 
uniform and indissoluble nature, and which always subsists 
similarly according to the same ; but that the body is most 
similar to the nature which is human, mortal, void of in- 
tellect, multiform, dissoluble and which never subsists 



THE PHsEDO. 107 

according to the same. Can we, my dear Cebes, produce 
any arguments to show that this is not the case ? 

We cannot. 

What then? in consequence of all this, must it not be 
the property of the body, to be swiftly dissolved ; but of 
the soul, on the contrary, to be entirely indissoluble, or 
something bordering on such a state? 

How should it not ? 

Do you conceive, therefore, says he, that when a man 
dies, the visible part of him, or the body, which is situated 
in a visible region (and which we call a dead body subject 
to dissolution, ruin and dissipation), does not immediately 
suffer any of these affections, but remains for a considera- 
ble space of time ; and if any one dies possessing a grace- 
ful body, that it very much retains its elegant form? 1 for, 
when the body is bound and buried according to the man- 
ner in which the Egyptians bury their dead, it remains 
almost entire for an incredible space of time ; and though 
some parts of the body may become rotten, yet the bones 
and nerves, and everything of this kind, are preserved as 
one may say immortal. Is it not so? 

Certainly. 

Can the soul, therefore, which is invisible, and which 
departs into another place of this kind, a place noble, 
pure and invisible, viz., into Hades, 2 to a beneficent and 
prudent God (at which place, if Divinity is willing, my 
soul will shortly arrive) ; can the soul, I say, since it is 
naturally of this kind, be immediately dissipated and 
perish on its being liberated from the body, as is asserted 
by the many? This is certainly, my dear Cebes and Sim- 

1 At a time of life when the body is in full vigor. 
* Hades, a-ifijj?, the invisible. 



108 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

mias, far from being the case. But this will much more 
abundantly take place, if it is liberated in a pure condi- 
tion, attracting to itself nothing of the body, as not having 
willingly communicated with it in the present life, but fled 
from it and collected itself into itself ; an employment of 
this kind having been the subject of its perpetual medita- 
tion. But this is nothing else than to philosophise rightly, 
and to meditate with facility, how to be dead in reality. 
Or will this not be a meditation of death ? 

Entirely so. 

Will not the soul, therefore, when in this condition, 
depart to that which is similar to itself, a divine nature, 
and which is likewise immortal and wise? and when it 
arrives thither, will it not become happy, being liberated 
from wandering and ignorance, terror and insane love, and 
from all other evils belonging to the human nature ; and 
so, as it is said of the initiated, will in reality pass the rest 
of its time in the society of the gods ? Shall we speak in 
this manner, Cebes, or otherwise ? 

In this manner, by Zeus, says Cebes. 

But I think that if the soul departs polluted and im- 
pure from the body, as having always been its associate, 
attending upon and loving the body, and becoming en- 
chanted by it, through its desires and pleasures, in such 
a manner as to think that nothing really is, except what 
is corporeal, which can be touched and seen, eaten and 
drunk, and at the same time is accustomed to hate, dread 
and avoid that which is dark and invisible to the eye of 
sense, which is intelligible and apprehended by philosophy; 
do you think that a soul thus affected can be liberated 
from the body, so as to subsist sincerely by itself ? 

By no means, says he. 



THE PH^DO. 109 

But I think that it will be contaminated by a corporeal 
nature, to which its converse and familiarity with the body, 
through perpetual association and abundant meditation, 
have rendered it similar and allied. 

Entirely so. 

But it is proper, my dear Cebes, to think that such a 
nature is ponderous and heavy, terrestrial and visible; and 
that a soul of this kind, through being connected with 
such a nature, is rendered heavy, and drawn down again 
into the visible region from its dread of that which is 
invisible and Hades, and, as it is said, wanders about 
monuments and tombs; about which indeed certain 
shadowy phantoms of souls appear, being the images pro- 
duced by such souls as have not been purely liberated 
from the body, but which participate of the visible nature; 
and on this account they become visible. 

It is very reasonable to suppose so, Socrates. 

It is reasonable indeed, Cebes : and likewise that these 
are not the souls of the worthy, but of the depraved, who 
are compelled to wander about such places; by these 
means suffering the punishment of their former conduct, 
which was evil ; and they are compelled thus to wander 
till, through the desire of a corporeal nature, which at- 
tends them, they are again bound to a body. They are 
bound, however, as it is proper they should be, to such 
manners as they have exercised in the present life. 

But what do you say these manners are, Socrates? 

As, for example, that such as are addicted to gluttony, 
arrogant injuries, and drinking, and have no pruduce nor 
reverence, shall enter into the tribes of asses and brutes of 
this kind. Or do you not think it proper that they 
should ? 



1 10 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

You speak in a manner perfectly becoming. 

But shall we not say, that such as held in the highest 
estimation injustice, tyranny and rapine shall enter into 
the tribes of wolves, hawks and kites ? Or where else 
can we say such souls depart ? 

Into tribes of this kind, certainly, says Cebes. 

It will, therefore, be manifest concerning the rest into 
what nature each departs, according to the similitudes of 
manners which they have exercised. 

It is manifest, says he ; for how should it not be so ? 

Are not, therefore, says he, those among these the 
most happy, and such as depart into the best place, who 
have made popular and social virtue their study, which 
they call indeed temperance and justice, and which is pro- 
duced from custom and exercise, without philosophy and 
intellect ? 

But how are these the most happy ? 

Because it is fit that these should again migrate into a 
social and mild tribe of this kind ; such as bees, wasps or 
ants, or into the same human tribe again, and become 
temperate and orderly men. 

It is fit. 

But it is not lawful for any to pass into the genus of 
gods, except such as, through a love of learning, have 
philosophised, and departed from hence perfectly pure. 
And for the sake of this, my dear Simmias and Cebes, 
those who have philosophised rightly abstain from all 
desires belonging to the body, and strenuously presevere 
in this abstinence, without giving themselves up to their 
dominion ; nor is it because they dread the ruin of their 
families and poverty, like the multitude of the lovers of 
wealth ; nor yet because they are afraid of ignominy and 



THE PHs&DO. in 

the infamy of improbity, like those who are lovers of 
dominion and honors, that they abstain from these desires. 

For it would not, Socrates, become them so to do, says 
Cebes. 

It would not, by Zeus, says he. Hence those, O 
Cebes ! who take care of their soul, and do not live in a 
state of subserviency to their bodies, bidding farewell to all 
such characters as we have mentioned above, do not pro- 
ceed in the same path with these during the journey of 
life, because such characters are ignorant how they should 
direct their course ; but considering that they ought not 
to act contrary to philosophy, and to its solution and puri- 
fication, they give themselves up to its direction, and 
follow wherever it leads. 

In what manner, Socrates ? 

I will tell you. 

The lovers of learning well know, that when philos- 
ophy receives their soul into her protection (and when she 
does so, she finds it vehemently bound and agglutinated 
to the body, and compelled to speculate things through 
this, as through a place of confinement, instead of behold- 
ing herself through herself ; and besides this, rolled in 
every kind of ignorance : philosophy likewise beholds the 
dire nature of the confinement, and it arises through 
desire ; so that he who is bound in an eminent degree 
assists in binding himself ) ; the lovers of learning there- 
fore, I say, know that philosophy, receiving their soul in 
this condition, endeavors gently to exhort it, and dissolve 
its bonds ; and this she attempts to accomplish, by show- 
ing that the inspection of things through the eyes is full 
of deception, and that this is likewise the case with per- 
ception through the ears and the other senses. Philosophy 



1 1 2 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

too persuades the soul to depart from all these fallacious 
informations, and to employ them no further than neces- 
sity requires ; and exhorts her to call together and collect 
herself into one. And besides this, to believe in no other 
than herself, with respect to what she understands, herself 
subsisting by herself, of that which has likewise a real 
subsistence by itself ; and not to consider that as having a 
true being which she speculates through others, and 
which has its subsistence in others. 1 And lastly, that a 
thing of this kind is sensible and visible ; but that what 
she herself perceives is intelligible and invisible. The soul 
of a true philosopher, therefore, thinking that he ought 
not to oppose this deliverance, abstains as much as possi- 
ble from pleasures and desires, griefs and fears, consider- 
ing that when any one is vehemently delighted or terrified, 
afflicted or desirous, he does not suffer any such mighty 
evil from these as some one may perhaps conceive, I mean 
such as disease and a consumption of wealth, through in- 
dulging his desires ; but that he suffers that which is the 
greatest, and the extremity of all evils, and this without 
apprehending that he does so. 

But what is this evil, Socrates, says Cebes. 

That the soul of every man is compelled at the same 
time to be either vehemently delighted or afflicted about 
some particular thing, and to consider that about which it 
is thus affected, as having a most evident and true subsist- 
ence, though this is by no means the case ; and that these 
are most especially visible objects. Is it not so? 

Entirely. 

' The soul alone can perceive the truth, but the senses, being different, 
receive and convey different impressions of the same thiqg ; the eye does not 
receive the same impression of an object as the ear. 



THE PH^DO. 113 

In this passion, therefore, is not the soul in the highest 
degree bound to the body ? 

In what manner? 

Because every pleasure and pain, as if armed with a 
nail, fasten and rivet the soul to the body, cause it to be- 
come corporeal, and fill it with an opinion, that whatever 
the body asserts is true. For, in consequence of the soul 
forming the same opinions with the body, and being de- 
lighted with the same objects, it appears to me that it is 
compelled to possess similar manners, and to be similarly 
nourished, and to become so affected, that it can never 
pass into Hades in a pure condition ; but always departs 
full of a corporeal nature ; and thus swiftly falls into an- 
other body, and becoming as it were sown, takes root and. 
grows there ; and lastly, that thus it comes to have no 
share in communion with that which is divine, pure and 
unchangeable. 

You speak most true, Socrates, says Cebes. 

For the sake of these things, therefore, O Cebes ! those 
who are justly lovers of learning are well-conducted and 
courageous, and not for the sake of such as the multitude 
assert. Or do you think it is? 

By no means ; for it cannot be. 

But the soul of a philosopher reasons in this manner ; 
and does not think that philosophy ought to free him from 
the body, but that when he is freed he may give himself 
up to pleasures and pains, by which he will again be 
bound to the body, and will undertake a work which it is 
impossible to finish, reweaving, as it were, the web of 
Penelope. But procuring tranquillity with respect to 
these, and following the guidance of the reasoning power, 
and being always conversant with this, contemplating at 



1 1 4 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

the same time that which is true, divine, and not the sub- 
ject of opinion, and being likewise nourished by such an 
object of contemplation, he will think that he ought to 
live in this manner while he lives, and that when he dies 
he shall depart to that which is akin to him — such as we 
have spoken of — being liberated from the maladies of the 
human nature. But from a nutriment of this kind the 
soul has no occasion to fear (while it makes these, O Sim- 
mias and Cebes ! its study), lest, in its liberation from the 
body, it should be rent asunder, and, being blown about 
and dissipated by the winds, should vanish, and no longer 
have anywhere a subsistence. 

When Socrates had thus spoken, a long silence ensued; 
and Socrates seemed to revolve with himself what had 
been said ; as likewise did the greatest part of us : but 
Cebes and Simmias discoursed a little with each other. 
And Socrates at length looking upon them, What, says 
he, do our assertions appear to you to have been not suffi- 
ciently demonstrated ? for many doubts and suspicions yet 
remain, if any one undertakes to investigate them suffi- 
ciently. If, therefore, you are considering something 
else among yourselves, I have nothing to say ; but if you 
are doubting about those particulars which we have just 
now made the subject of our discourse, do not be remiss 
in speaking about and running over what has been said, 
if it appears to you in any respect that we might have 
spoken better ; and receive me again as your associate, if 
you think that you can be any ways benefited by my 
assistance. 

Upon this Simmias said, Indeed, Socrates, I will tell 
you the truth : for some time since each of us being 



THE PHsEDO. 115 

agitated with doubts, we impelled and exhorted one 
another to interrogate you, through our desire of hearing 
them solved ; but we were afraid of causing a debate, lest 
it should be disagreeable to you in your present circum- 
stances. But Socrates, upon hearing this, gently laughed, 
and said, This is strange, indeed, Simmias; for I shall 
with difficulty be able to persuade other men that I do not 
consider the present fortune as a calamity, since I am not 
able to persuade even you ; but you are afraid lest I 
should be more morose now than I was prior to the 
present event. And, as it seems, I appear to you to be 
more despicable than swans with respect to divination, 
who, when they perceive that it is necessary for them to 
die, sing not only as usual, but then more than ever ; re- 
joicing that they are about to depart to that deity in whose 
service they are engaged. But men, because they them- 
selves are afraid of death, falsely accuse the swans, and 
assert that, in consequence of their being afflicted at 
death, their song is the result of grief. Nor do they con- 
sider that no bird sings when it is hungry, or cold or is 
afflicted with any other malady ; neither the nightingale, 
nor the swallow nor the lapwing, all which they say sing 
lamenting through distress. But neither do these birds, 
as it appears to me, sing through sorrow, nor yet the 
swans ; but yet in my opinion these last are prophetic, as 
belonging to Apollo ; and in consequence of foreseeing the 
good which Hades contains, they sing and rejoice at that 
period more remarkably than at any preceding time. But 
I consider myself as a fellow-servant of the swans, and 
sacred to the same Divinity. I possess a divining power 
from our common master no less than they ; nor shall I be 
more afflicted than the swan in being liberated from the 



1 1 6 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

present life. Hence it is proper that you should both 
speak and inquire about whatever you please, as long as 
the eleven magistrates will permit. 

If you are willing I will relate to you what happened 
to me ; and afterwards, if anything which I shall say shall 
appear to you useful, employ it. 

But I am most assuredly willing, says Cebes. 

Hear then my narration : When I was a young man, 
Cebes, I was in a wonderful manner desirous of that wis- 
dom which they call a history of nature : for it appeared 
to me to be a very superb affair to know the causes of 
each particular, on what account each is generated, why it 
perishes, and why it exists. And I often tossed myself as 
it were upwards and downwards ; considering, in the first 
place, whether after that which is hot and cold has re- 
ceived a certain rottenness, as some say, then animals are 
nourished ; and whether the blood is that through which 
we have intelligence, or air or fire ; or whether none of 
these, but the brain, is that which affords the senses of 
seeing, hearing and smelling ; so that memory and opinion 
are generated from these, and that from memory and opinion 
obtaining fixity, Science is accordingly produced? And 
again considering the corruptions of these, and the changes 
with which the heavens and the earth are affected, I at 
length appeared to myself so unskillful in the speculation 
of these, as to receive no advantage from my inquiries. 
But I will give you a sufficient proof of the truth of this : 
for I then became so very blind, with respect to things 
which I knew before with great clearness (as it appeared 
both to myself and others) through this speculation, as to 
want instruction both in many particulars, which I thought 
I had known before, and in this, too, how a man is in- 



THE PH^DO. 117 

creased. For I thought it was evident to every one that 
this took place through eating and drinking ; for when, 
from the ailment, flesh accedes to flesh, bone to bone, and 
everywhere kindred to kindred parts, then the bulk which 
was small becomes afterward great ; and thus a little man 
becomes a large one. Such was then my opinion ; does 
it appear to you a becoming one ? 

To me, indeed, it does, says Cebes. 

But still further, consider as follows: for I thought 
that I seemed to myself sufficiently right in my opinion, 
when, on seeing a tall man standing by a short one, I 
judged that he was taller by the head ; and in like manner 
one horse than another : and still more evident than these, 
ten things appeared to me to be more than eight, because 
two is added to them, and that a bicubital is greater than 
a cubital magnitude, through its surpassing it by the half. 

But now, says Cebes, what appears to you respecting 
these ? 

By Zeus, says he, I am so far from thinking that I 
know the cause of these, that I cannot even persuade 
myself, when any one person adds one to one, that then 
the one to which the addition was made becomes two, or 
that the added one and that to which it is added, become 
two, through the addition of the one to the other. For I 
should wonder, since each of these, when separate from 
one another, was one, and not then two ; if, after they 
have approached nearer to each other, this should be the 
cause of their becoming two — viz. , the association through 
which they are placed nearer to each other. Nor yet, if 
any person should divide one, am I able to persuade my- 
self that this division is the cause of its becoming two. 
For that former cause of two being produced is contrary 



1 1 8 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

to this. For then this took place, because they were col- 
lected near to each other, and the one was applied to the 
other ; but now, because the one is removed and separated 
from the other. Nor do I any longer persuade myself, 
that I know why one is produced ; nor, in one word, why 
anything else is either generated or destroyed, or is, ac- 
cording to this method of proceeding: but, in order to 
obtain this knowledge, I mix in, in some random fashion 
of my own, a new method, by no means admitting this 
which I have mentioned. 

But having once heard a person reading from a certain 
book, composed, as he said, by Anaxagoras — when he came 
to that part in which he says that intellect orders and is 
the cause of all things, I was delighted with this cause, 
and thought that, in a certain respect, it was an excellent 
thing for intellect to be the cause of all ; and I considered 
that, if this was the case, disposing intellect would adorn 
all things, and place everything in that situation in which 
it would subsist in the best manner. If any one, there- 
fore, should be willing to discover the cause through 
which everything is generated, or destroyed, or is, he 
ought to discover how it may subsist in the best manner, or 
suffer or perform anything else. In consequence of this, 
therefore, it is proper that a man should consider nothing 
else, either about himself or about others, except that 
which is the most excellent and the best : but it is neces- 
sary that he who knows this should also know that which 
is subordinate, since there is one and the same science of 
both. But thus reasoning with myself, I rejoiced, think- 
ing that I had found a preceptor in Anaxagoras, who 
would instruct me in the causes of things agreeably to my 
own conceptions; and that he would inform me, in the 



THE PH^DO. 119 

first place, whether the earth is fiat or round ; and after- 
wards explain the cause and necessity of its being so, ad- 
ducing for this purpose that which is better, and showing 
that it is better for the earth to exist in this manner. 
And if he should say it is situated in the middle, that he 
would, besides this, show that it is better for it to be in 
the middle : and if he should render all this apparent to 
me, I was so disposed as not to require any other species 
of cause. I had likewise prepared myself in a similar 
manner for any inquiry respecting the sun and moon, and 
the other stars, their velocities and revolutions about each 
other, and all their other properties ; so as to be able to 
know why it is better for each to operate in a certain man- 
ner, and to suffer that which it suffers. For I by no 
means thought, after he had said that all these were 
orderly disposed by intellect, he would introduce any 
other cause of their subsistence, except that which shows 
that it is best for them to exist as they do. Hence I 
thought that in assigning the cause common to each par- 
ticular, and to all things, he would explain that which is 
best for each, and is the common good of all. And indeed 
I would not have exchanged these hopes for a mighty 
gain ! but having obtained his books with prodigious 
eagerness, I read them with great celerity, that I might 
with great celerity know that which is the best, and that 
which is bad. 

From this admirable hope, however, my friend, I was 
forced away, when, in the course of my reading, I saw 
him make no use of intellect, nor employ certain causes, 
for the purpose of orderly disposing particulars, but assign 
air, aether and water, and many other things equally 
absurd, as the causes of things. And he appeared to me 



1 20 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

to be affected in a manner similar to him who should as- 
sert, that all the actions of Socrates are produced by intel- 
lect ; and afterwards, endeavoring to relate the causes of 
each particular action, should say, that, in the first place, 
I now sit here because my body is composed from bones 
and nerves, and that the bones are solid, and are separated 
by intervals from each other ; but that the nerves, which 
are of a nature capable of intension and relaxation, cover 
the bones, together with the flesh and skin by which they 
are contained. The bones, therefore, being suspended 
from their joints, the nerves, by straining and relaxing 
them, enable me to bend my limbs as at present; and 
through this cause I here sit in an inflected position — and 
again, should assign other suchlike causes of my conver- 
sation with you — viz., voice, and air and hearing, and a 
thousand other such particulars, neglecting to adduce the 
true cause, that since it appeared to the Athenians better 
to condemn me, on this account, it also appeared to me to 
be better and more just to sit here, and, thus abiding, 
sustain the punishment which they have ordained me. 
For otherwise, by the Dog, as it appears to me, these 
nerves and bones would have been carried long ago either 
into Megara or Bceotia, through an opinion of that which 
is best, if I had not thought it more just and becoming 
to sustain the punishment ordered by my country, what- 
ever it might be, than to withdraw myself and run 
away. But to call things of this kind causes is ex- 
tremely absurd. Indeed, if any one should say that 
without possessing such things as bones and nerves, and 
other particulars which belong to me, I could not do 
the things I think right, he would speak the truth : but to 
assert that I act as I do at present through these, and that 



THE PHsEDO. 121 

with these things intellect is concerned and not with the 
choice of what is best, would be an assertion full of ex- 
treme negligence and sloth. Not to be able to distinguish 
between the true cause of a thing and that without which 
the cause would not be a cause ! And this indeed ap- 
pears to me to be the case with the multitude of mankind, 
who, handling things as it were in darkness, call them by 
names foreign from the truth, and thus denominate things 
causes which are not so. Hence, one placing round the 
earth a certain vortex, produced by the celestial motion, 
renders by this means the earth fixed in the center ; but 
another places air under it, as if it was a basis to a broad 
trough. But they neither investigate that power through 
which things are now disposed in the best manner possi- 
ble, nor do they think that it is endued with any divine 
strength : but they fancy they have found a certain Atlas, 
more strong and immortal than such a strength, and far 
more sustaining all things ; and they think that the good 
and the becoming do not in reality connect and sustain 
anything. With respect to myself, indeed, I would most 
willingly become the disciple of any one : so that I might 
perceive in what manner a cause of this kind subsists. 
But since I am deprived of this advantage, and have 
neither been able to discover it myself, nor to learn it from 
another, are you willing, Cebes, that I should show you 
the manner in which, for the lack of better, I made in- 
quiry into causes ? 

I am, says he, abundantly willing. 

It appeared to me therefore, says Socrates, afterwards, 
when I had failed in my investigations of existence, that I 
ought to take care lest I should be affected in the same ■ 
manner as those are who attentively behold the sun in an 



122 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

eclipse : for some would be deprived of their sight, unless 
they beheld its image in water, or in a similar medium. 
And something of this kind I perceived with respect to 
myself, and was afraid lest my soul should be perfectly 
blinded through beholding things with my eyes, and 
through endeavoring to apprehend them by means of the 
several senses. Hence I considered that I ought to fly to 
Reason, and in that survey the truth of things. Perhaps, 
indeed, this similitude of mine may not in a certain respect 
be proper : for I do not entirely admit that he who con- 
templates things in Reason, surveys them in images, more 
than he who contemplates them in external effects. This 
method, however, I have adopted ; and always establish- 
ing that reason as an hypothesis, which I judge to be the 
most valid, whatever appears to me to be consonant to 
this, I fix upon as true, both concerning the cause of 
things and everything else ; but such as are not consonant 
I consider as not true. But I wish to explain to you what 
I say in a clearer manner : for I think that you do not at 
present understand me. 

Not very much, by Zeus, says Cebes. 

However, says he, I now assert nothing new, but what 
I have always asserted at other times, and in the preced- 
ing disputation. For I shall now attempt to demonstrate 
to you that species of cause which I have been discoursing 
about, and shall return again to those particulars which 
are so much discussed ; beginning from these, and laying 
down as an hypothesis, that there is a certain Beauty, 
itself subsisting by itself ; and a certain Goodness and 
Greatness, and so of all the rest ; which if you permit me 
to do, and allow that such things have a subsistence, I 



THE PHs&DO. 123 

hope that I shall be able from these to demonstrate this 
cause to 3-011, and discover that the soul is immortal. 

But, says Cebes, in consequence of having granted you 
this already, you cannot be hindered from drawing such a 
conclusion. 

But consider, says he, the things consequent on these, 
and see whether you will then likewise agree with me. 
For it appears to me, that if there be anything else beauti- 
ful, besides the Beautiful itself, it cannot be beautiful on 
any other account than because it participates of the 
Beautiful itself ; and I should speak in the same manner 
of all things. Do you admit such a cause ? 

I admit it, says he. 

I do not, therefore, says Socrates, any longer perceive, 
nor am I able to understand, those other ingenious causes; 
but if any one tells me why a certain thing is beautiful, 
and assigns as a reason, either its possessing a florid color, 
or figure, or something else of this kind, I bid farewell to 
all that, for it only confuses me ; but this I retain with 
myself, simply, uncritically and perhaps foolishly, that 
nothing else causes it to be beautiful, than either the pre- 
sence, or communion, or in whatever manner the opera- 
tions may take place, of the Beautiful itself. For I cannot 
yet affirm how this takes place ; but only this, that all 
beautiful things become such through the beautiful itself. 
For it appears to me most safe thus to answer both myself 
and others ; and adhering to this, I think that I can never 
fall, but that I shall be secure in answering, that all 
beautiful things are beautiful through the Beautiful itself. 
Does it not also appear so to you ? 

It does. 

And that great things, therefore, are great, and things 



1 24 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

greater, greater through Magnitude itself ; and things 
lesser, lesser through Smallness itself ? 

Certainly. 

Neither, therefore, would you assent, if it should be 
said that some one is larger than another by the head, and 
that he who is lesser is lesser by the very same thing, i.e., 
the head : but you would testify that you said nothing else 
than that, with respect to everything great, one thing is 
greater than another by nothing else than Magnitude, and 
that through this it is greater, i.e., through Magnitude; 
and that the lesser is lesser through nothing else than 
Smallness, and that through this it is lesser, i.e., through 
Smallness. For you would be afraid, I think, lest, if you 
should say that any one is greater and lesser by the head, 
you should contradict yourself : first, in asserting that the 
greater is greater, and the lesser lesser, by the very same 
thing ; and afterwards that the greater by the head ; 
which is a small thing ; and that it is monstrous to sup- 
pose, that anything which is great can become so through 
something which is small. Would you not be afraid of 
all this ? 

Indeed I should, says Cebes, laughing. 

Would you not also, says he, be afraid to say that ten 
things are more than eight by two, and that through 
this cause ten transcends eight, and not by Multitude and 
through Magnitude ? And in like manner, that a thing 
which is two cubits in length is greater than that which is 
but one cubit, by the half, and not by Magnitude? for the 
dread is indeed the same. 

Entirely so, says he. 

But what ? one being added to one, will the addition 
be the cause of their becoming two ? or if one is divided, 



THE PH^EDO. 125 

and two produced, would you not be afraid to assign divi- 
sion as the cause? Indeed you would cry with a loud 
voice, that you know no other way by which anything 
subsists, than by participating the proper essence of every- 
thing which it participates ; and that in these you can 
assign no other cause of their becoming two, than the par- 
ticipation of the Duad ; and that it is proper all such 
things as are about to become two, should participate of 
this, and of Unity, whatever is about to become one. But 
you would bid farewell to these divisions and additions, 
and other subtilties of this kind, and would leave them to 
be employed in answering, by those who are wiser than 
yourself. And fearing, as it is said, your own shadow, 
and your own unskillfulness, you would adhere to this 
safe hypothesis, and answer in the manner I have de- 
scribed. But if any one should attack this hypothesis, 
you would refrain from answering him till you had con- 
sidered the consequences resulting from thence, and 
whether they were consonant or dissonant to one another. 
But when it is necessary for you to assign a reason for 
your belief in this hypothesis, you will assign it in a 
similar manner, laying down again another hypothesis, 
which shall appear to be the best of higher hypotheses, 
and so on, till you arrive at something sufficient. At the 
same time you will by no means confound things by 
mingling them together, after the manner of the conten- 
tious, when you discourse concerning the principle and 
the consequences arising from thence, if you are willing 
to discover anything of true being, For by such as these, 
perhaps, no attention is paid to this. For these, through 
their wisdom, are able to be quite content with the con- 



1 2 6 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

fusion they make. But you, if you rank among the philo- 
sophers, will act, I think, in the manner I have described. 
Both Simmias and Cebes said, You speak most truly. 

Echec. By Zeus, Phsedo, they assented with great 
propriety : for he appears to me to have asserted this in a 
manner wonderfully clear ; and this even to one endued 
with the smallest degree of intellect. 

Phced. And so, indeed, Kchecrates, it appeared in 
every respect to all who were present. 

Echec. And well it might : for it appears so to us, now 
we hear it, who were not present. But what was the dis- 
course after this ? 

If I remember right, after they had granted all this, 
and had confessed that each of the several species was 
something, and that others participating of these received 
the same denomination, he afterwards interrogated them 
as follows : If then you allow that these things are so, 
when you say that Simmias is larger than Socrates, 
but less than Phsedo, do you not then assert that both 
Magnitude and Parvitude are inherent in Simmias ? 

I do. 

And yet, says he, you must confess that this circum- 
stance of Simmias surpassing Socrates, does not truly sub- 
sist in the manner which the words seem to imply. For 
Simmias is not naturally adapted to surpass Socrates, so 
far as he is Simmias, but by the magnitude which he pos- 
sesses : nor, again, does he surpass Socrates so far as 
Socrates is Socrates, but because Socrates possesses parvi- 
tude with respect to his magnitude. 

True. 



THE PHsEDO. 127 

Nor again is Siinmias surpassed by Phsedo, because 
Phsedo is Phaedo, but because Phsedo possesses magnitude 
with respect to the parvitude of Simmias. 

It is so. 

Simmias, therefore, is allotted the appellation of both 
small and great, being situated in the middle of both ; 
exhibiting his smallness to be surpassed by the greatness 
of the one, and his greatness to the other's smallness, 
which it surpasses. And at the same time, gently laugh- 
ing, I seem, says he, to be speaking as if I were compos- 
ing a treatise, but notwithstanding this, it is as I say. 

He allowed it. 

But I have mentioned these things, in order that you 
may be of the same opinion as myself. For to me it ap- 
pears, not only that Magnitude is never willing to be at 
the same time both great and small, but that the magni- 
tude which we contain never desires to receive that which 
is small, nor be surpassed ; but that it is willing to do one 
of these two things, either to fly away and gradually with- 
draw itself, when its contrary the small approaches to it, 
or to perish when it arrives ; but that it is unwilling, by 
sustaining and receiving Parvitude, to be different from 
what it was. In the same manner as I myself receiving 
and sustaining Parvitude, and still remaining that what I 
am, am small. But that which is great dares not to be 
small. And in like manner the s?nall, which resides in us, 
is not willing at any time to subsist in becoming great, or 
to be great : nor does anything else among contraries, 
while it remains that which it was, wish at the same time 
to subsist in becoming, and being, its contrary ; but it 
either departs or perishes in consequence of this affection. 

It appears so to me, says Cebes, in every respect. 



1 28 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

But a certain person, who was present, upon hearing 
this (I do not clearly remember who it was), By the gods, 
says he, was not the very contrary of what you now 
assert admitted by you in the former part of your dis- 
course — viz. , that the greater was generated from the less, 
and the less from the greater ; and that generation among 
contraries plainly took place from contraries ? But now 
you appear to me to say, that this can never be the case. 
Upon this Socrates, after he had inclined his head, and 
had listened to his discourse, said, You very manfully put 
me in mind ; yet you do not understand the difference be- 
tween what is now and what was then asserted. For 
then it was said, that a contrary thing was generated from 
a contrary ; but now, that the contrary in itself can never 
become contrary to itself, neither in us, nor in nature. 
For then, my friend, we spoke concerning things which 
possess contraries, calling the contraries by the appellation 
of the things in which they reside ; but now we speak of 
things which receive their denomination from the con- 
traries residing in them. And we should never be willing 
to assert that these contraries receive a generation from 
one another. And at the same time, beholding Cebes, he 
said, Did anything which has been said by this interro- 
gator disturb you also ? 

Indeed, says Cebes, it did not ; and I cannot say that 
I am not easily disturbed. 

We ingenuously, therefore, says he, assent to this, that 
the contrary can never become contrary to itself. 

Entirely so, says Cebes. 

But still further, says he, consider whether you agree 
with me in this also. Do you call the hot and the cold any- 
thing ? 

I do. 



THE PH^DO. 129 

Are they the same with snow and fire ? 

They are not, by Zeus. 

The hot, therefore, is something different from fire, and 
the cold from snow. 

Certainly. 

But this also is, I think, apparent to you, that snow, 
as long as it is such, can never, by receiving heat, remain 
what it was before — viz., snow, and at the same time be- 
come hot ; but on the accession of heat, must either with- 
draw from it, or perish. 

Entirely so. 

And again, that fire, when cold approaches to it, must 
either depart or perish ; but that it will never dare, by re- 
ceiving coldness, still to remain what it was — i.e, fire, and 
yet be at the same time cold. 

You speak truly, says he. 

But, says Socrates, it happens to some of these, that 
not only the species itself is always thought .worthy of the 
same appellation, but likewise something else, which is 
not indeed that species, but which perpetually possesses 
the form of it as long as it exists. But in the following 
instances my meaning will perhaps be more apparent. 
The odd number ought always to possess that name by 
which we now call it : should it not ? 

Entirely so. 

But is this the case with the odd number alone (for 
this is w T hat I inquire) ? or is there anything else which is 
not indeed the same with the odd, but yet which ought 
always to be called odd, together with its own proper 
name, because it naturally subsists in such a manner, that 
it can never desert the form of the odd ? But this is no 
other than what happens to the number three and many 

9 



1 30 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

other things. For consider, does not the number three 
appear to you to be always called by its proper name, and 
at the same time by the name of the odd, though the odd 
is not the same as the triad f Yet the triad, and the pentad, 
and the entire half of number, naturally subsist in such a 
manner, that though they are not the same as the odd, yet 
each of them is always odd. And again, two and four, 
and the whole other order of number, though they are not 
the same as the even, yet each of them is always even : do 
you admit this or not ? 

How should I not ? says he. 

See then, sa}<s Socrates, what I wish to evince. But 
it is as follows : It has appeared, not only that contraries 
do not receive one another, but that even such things as 
are not contrary to each other, and yet always possess con- 
traries, do not appear to receive that idea which is contrary 
to the idea which they contain ; but that on its approach 
they either perish or depart. Shall we not, therefore, say 
that these things would first perish, and endure anything 
whatever, sooner than sustain to be three things, and at 
the same time to be even ? 

Entirely so, says Cebes. 

And yet, says Socrates, the duad is not contrary to the 
triad. 

Certainly not. 

Not only therefore, do contrary species never sustain 
the approach of each other, but certain other things like- 
wise cannot sustain the accession of contraries. 

You speak most true, says he. 

Are you willing, therefore, says he, that, if we are 
able, we should define what kind of things these are? 

Entirely so. 



THE PHsEDO. 131 

Will they not, then, Cebes, says he, be such things as 
compel whatever they occupy, not only to retain their idea, 
but likewise that of some contrary ? 

How do you mean ? 

Exactly as we just now said. For you know it is 
necessary, that whatever things the idea of three occupies 
should not only be three, but likewise odd. 

Entirely so. 

To a thing of this kind, therefore, we assert that an 
idea contrary to that form, through which it becomes what 
it is, will never approach. 

It cannot. 

But it becomes what it is through the odd : does it 
not? 

Certainly. 

But is not the contrary to this the idea of the even ? 

It is. 

The idea of the even, therefore, will never accede to 
three things. 

Never. 

Are not three things, therefore, destitute of the even? 

Destitute. 

The triad, therefore, is an odd number. 

It is. 

The things which I mentioned then are denned — viz. , 
such things, which, though they are not contrary to some 
particular nature, yet do not at the same time receive it ; 
just as the triad in the present instance, though it is not 
contrary to the even, yet does not anything more receive 
it on this account : for it always brings with it that which 
is contrary to the even ; and in like manner the duad to 
the odd, and fire to cold, and an abundant multitude of 



1 32 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

other particulars. But see whether you would thus define, 
not only that a contrary does not receive a contrary, but 
likewise that the nature which brings with it a contrary 
to that to which it approaches, will never receive the con- 
trariety of that which it introduces. But recollect again, 
for it will not be useless to hear it repeated often. Five 
things will not receive the form of the even ; neither will 
ten things, which are the double of five, receive the form 
of the odd. This, therefore, though it is itself contrary 
to something else, yet will not receive the form of the 
odd ; nor will the sesquialter, nor other things of this 
kind, such as the half and the third part, ever receive the 
form of the whole, if you pursue and assent to these con- 
sequences. 

I most vehemently, says he, pursue and assent to 
them. 

Again, therefore, says Socrates, speak to me from the 
beginning ; and this not by answering to what I inquire, 
but, in a different manner, imitating me. For I say this, 
in consequence of perceiving another mode of answering, 
arising from what has now been said, no less secure than 
that which was established at first. Fcr, if you should 
ask me what that is, which, when inherent in any body, 
causes the body to be hot, I should not give you that safe 
and unskilful answer, that it is heat, but one more elegant 
deduced from what we have just now said ; I mean, that 
it is fire. Nor, if you should ask me what that is, which 
when inherent in a certain body, the body is diseased, I 
should not say that it is disease, but a fever. Nor, if 
you should ask what that is, which when inherent in 
a number, the number will be odd, I should not say that 
it is oddness, but unity, and in a similar manner in other 



THE PH^DO. 133 

particulars. But see whether you sufficiently understand 
my meaning. 

Perfectly so, says he. 

Answer me then, says Socrates, what that is which, 
when inherent in the body, the body will be alive ? 

Soul, says he. 

Is this then always the case ? 

How should it not, says he ? 

Will soul, therefore, always introduce life to that which 
it occupies ? 

It will truly, says he. 

But is there anything contrary to life, or not ? 

There is. 

But what ? 

Death. 

The soul, therefore, will never receive the contrary to 
that which it introduces, in consequence of what has been 
already admitted ? 

Assuredly it cannot, says Cebes. 

But what ? how do we denominate that which does not 
receive the idea of the even ? 

Odd, says he. 

And how do we call that which does not receive jus- 
tice, and that which does not receive music ? 

We call, says he, the one unjust, and the other un- 
musical. 

Be it so. But what do we call that which does not re- 
ceive death? 

Immortal, says he. 

The soul does not receive death ? 

It does not. 

The soul, therefore, is immortal. 

Immortal. 



134 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

I,et it be so, says he. And shall we say that this is 
now demonstrated ? Or how does it appear to you ? 

It appears to me, Socrates, to be most sufficiently 
demonstrated. 

What then, says he, Cebes, if it were essential to the 
odd that it should be free from destruction, would not three 
things be indestructible ? 

How should they not ? 

If, therefore, it was also essential that a thing void of 
heat should be indestructible, when any one should intro- 
duce heat to snow, would not the snow withdraw itself, 
safe and unliquefied ? For it would not perish ; not yet, 
abiding, would it receive the heat. 

You speak the truth, says he. 

In like manner, I think if that which is void of cold 
was indestructible, that when anything cold approached to 
fire, the fire would neither be extinguished nor destroyed, 
but would depart free from damage. 

It is necessary, says he. 

Hence, says Socrates, it is necessary to speak in this 
manner concerning that which is immortal : for, if that 
which is immortal is indestructible, it is impossible that 
the soul, when death approaches to it, should perish. For 
it follows, from what has been said, that it does not receive 
death, and of course it will never be dead. Just as we 
said, that three things will never be even, nor will this 
ever be the case with that which is odd : nor will fire ever 
be cold, nor yet the heat which is inherent in fire. But 
some one may say, What hinders but that the odd may 
never become the even, through the accession of the even, 
as we have confessed ; and yet, when the odd is destroyed, 
the even may succeed instead of it ? We cannot contend 



THE PH^EDO. 135 

with him who makes this objection, that it is not de- 
stroyed : for the odd is not free from destruction ; since, 
if this was granted to us, we might easily oppose the ob- 
jection, and obtain this concession, that the odd and three 
things would depart, on the approach of the even ; and we 
might contend in the same manner about fire and heat, 
and other particulars : might we not ? 

Entirely so. 

And now, therefore, since we have confessed respect- 
ing that which is immortal, that it is indestructible, it 
must follow that the soul is, together with being immortal, 
likewise indestructible: but if this be not admitted, other 
arguments will be necessary for our conviction. But there 
is no occasion for this, says he. For it is scarcely possi- 
ble that anything else should be void of corruption, if that 
which is immortal and eternal is subject to dissolution. 1 

But I think, says Socrates, that Divinity, and the form 
itself of life, and if anything else besides this is immortal, 
must be confessed by all beings to be entirely free from 
dissolution. All men, indeed, sa)'S he, by Zeus, must 
acknowledge this; and much more, as it appears to me, 
must it be admitted by the gods. Since, therefore, that 
which is immortal is also incorruptible, will not the soul, 
since it is immortal, be indestructible ? 

It is perfectly necessary. 

When, therefore, death invades a man, the mortal part 
of him, as it appears, dies ; but the immortal part departs 
safe and uncorrupted, and withdraws itself from death. 

It appears so. 

The soul, therefore, says he, O Cebes, will, more than 

1 1mmortality belongs only to the soul. Indestructibility belongs to both 
body and soul. 



136 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

anything, be immortal and indestructible ; and our souls 
will in reality subsist in Hades. 

And therefore, says he, Socrates, I have nothing 
further to object to these arguments, nor any reason why 
I should disbelieve their reality : but if either Simmias, or 
any person present, has anything to say, he will do well 
not to be silent : for I know not what other opportunity 
he can have, besides the present, if he wishes either to 
speak or hear about things of this kind. 

But indeed, says Simmias, I have nothing which can 
hinder my belief in what has been said. But yet on 
account of the magnitude of the things about which we 
have discoursed, and through my despising human imbe- 
cility, I am compelled to retain with myself an unbelief 
about what has been asserted. 

Indeed, Simmias, says Socrates, you not only speak 
well in the present instance, but it is necessary that even 
those first hypotheses which we established, and which are 
believed by us, should at the same time be more clearly 
considered : and if you sufficiently investigate them, you 
will follow reason, as it appears to me, in as great a degree 
as is possible to a man. And if this becomes manifest, 
you will no longer make any further inquiry. 

You speak true, says he. 

But it is just, my friends, says he, to think that if the 
soul is immortal, it requires our care and attention, not 
only for the present time, in which we say it lives, but 
likewise with a view to the whole of time : and it will now 
appear that he who neglects it must subject himself to a 
most dreadful danger. For, if death were the liberation 
of the whole man, it would be an unexpected gain to the 
wicked to be liberated at the same time from the body, 



THE PH^DO. 137 

and from their vices together with their soul : but now, 
since the soul appears to be immortal, no other flight 
from evils, and no other safety remains for it, than in be- 
coming as good and as wise as possible. For when the 
soul arrives at Hades, it will possess nothing but discipline 
and education, which are said to be of the greatest ad- 
vantage or detriment to the dead, in the very beginning 
of their progression thither. For thus it is said : that the 
daemon of each person, which was allotted to him while 
living, endeavors to lead each to a certain place, where it 
is necessary that all of them, being collected together, 
after they have been judged, should proceed to Hades, 
together with their leader, who is ordered to conduct them 
from hence thither. But there receiving the allotments 
proper to their condition, and abiding for a necessary 
time, another leader brings them back hither again, in 
many and long periods of time. The journey, therefore, 
is not such as Telephus asserts it to be in Eschylus. For 
he says that a single and simple path leads to Hades : but 
it appears to me that the path is neither simple nor one. 
For there would be no occasion of leaders, nor could any 
one ever wander from the right road, if there was but one 
way. But now it appears to have many divisions and 
dubious turnings: and this I conjecture from our holy 
and legal rites. The soul, therefore, which is properly 
adorned with virtue, and which possesses wisdom, will- 
ingly follows its leader, and is not ignorant of its present 
condition : but the soul which still adheres to body 
through desire (as I said before), being for a long space 
of time terrified about it, and struggling and suffering 
abundantly about the visible place, 1 is with violence and 

1 1ts place of interment. 



1 38 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO, 

great difficulty led away by its presiding daemon. And 
when it arrives at that place where other souls are as- 
sembled, all the rest fly from and avoid this unpurified 
soul, which has been guilty of either unjust slaughter, or 
has perpetrated such deeds as are allied to this, and are 
the works of kindred souls ; nor is any one willing to be- 
come either its companion or leader. But such a soul 
wanders about, oppressed with every kind of anxiety and 
trouble, till certain periods of time are accomplished : and 
these being completed, it is driven by necessity to an 
abode accommodated to its nature. But the soul which 
has passed through life with purity and moderation, ob- 
taining the gods for its companions and leaders, will reside 
in a place adapted to its purified condition. 

There are indeed many and admirable places belonging 
to the earth ; and the earth itself is neither of such a kind, 
nor of such a magnitude, as those who are accustomed to 
speak about it imagine, as I am persuaded from a certain 
person's account. 

How is this, Socrates, says Simmias? For I myself 
also have heard many things about the earth ; and yet 
perhaps not these particulars which have obtained your 
belief. I should therefore be glad to hear you relate 
them. 

Indeed, Simmias, says he, the art of Glaucus does not 
appear to me to be necessary, 1 in order to relate these 
particulars ; but to evince their truth, seems to me to be 
an undertaking beyond what the art of Glaucus can ac- 
complish. Besides, I myself perhaps am not able to 
accomplish this ; and even though I should know how, 
the time which is allotted me to live, Simmias, seems by 

1 A proverb of unknown origin, about matters requiring little trouble. 



THE PH^EDO. 139 

no means sufficient for the length of such a discourse. 
However, nothing hinders me from informing you what I 
am persuaded is the truth, respecting the form of the 
earth, and the places which it contains. 

And this information, says Simmias, will be sufficient. 

I am persuaded, therefore, says he, in the first place, 
that if the earth is in the middle of the heavens, and is of 
a spherical figure, it has no occasion of air, nor of any 
other such like necessity, to prevent it from falling : but 
that the perfect similitude of the heavens to themselves, 
and the equilibrity of the earth, are sufficient causes of its 
support. For that which is equally inclined, w T hen placed 
in the middle of a similar nature, cannot tend more or less 
to one part than another ; but, subsisting on all sides 
similarly affected, it will remain free from all inclination. 
This is the first thing of which I am persuaded. 

And very properly so, says Cebes. 

But yet further, says he, that the earth is prodigiously 
great ; that we who dwell in places extending from Phasis 
to the pillars of Hercules, inhabit only a small portion of 
it, about the Mediterranean Sea, like ants or frogs about a 
marsh ; and that there are many others elsewhere, who 
dwell in many such-like places. For I am persuaded, that 
there are everywhere about the earth many hollow places 
of all- various forms and magnitudes ; into which there is 
a confluence of water, mists and air : but that the earth 
itself, which is of a pure nature, is situated in the pure 
heavens, in which the stars are contained, and which 
most of those who are accustomed to speak about such 
particulars denominate aether. But the places which we 
inhabit are nothing more than the dregs of this pure earth, 
or cavities into which its dregs continually flow. We are 



i 4 o SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

ignorant, therefore, that we dwell in the cavities of this 
earth, and imagine that we inhabit its upper parts. Just 
as if some one dwelling in the middle bottom of the sea, 
should think that he resided on its surface, and, behold- 
ing the sun and other stars through the water, should 
imagine that the sea is the heavens : but through sloth 
and imbecility having never ascended to the top of the 
sea, nor emerged from its deeps into this region, has never 
perceived how much purer and more beautiful it is than 
the place which he inhabits, nor has received this inform- 
ation from any other who has beheld this place of our 
abode. In the very same manner are we affected : for, 
dwelling in a certain hollow of the earth, we think that 
we reside on its surface ; and we call the air heaven, as if 
the stars passed through this, as through the heavens 
themselves. And this likewise, in the same manner as in 
the above instance, happens to us through our imbecility 
and sloth, which render us incapable of ascending to the 
summit of the air. For, otherwise, if any one could arrive 
at its summit, or, becoming winged, could fly thither, he 
would be seen emerging from hence ; and just as fishes, 
emerging hither from the sea, perceive what our region 
contains, in the same manner would he behold the several 
particulars belonging to the summit of the earth. And 
besides this, if his nature was sufficient for such an 
elevated survey, he would know that the heavens which 
he there beheld were the true heavens, and that he per- 
ceived the true light and the true earth. For this earth 
which we inhabit, the stones which it contains, and the 
whole region of our abode, are all corrupted and gnawed, 
just as things in the sea are corroded by the salt: for 
nothing worthy of estimation grows in the sea, nor does it 



THE PH^DO. 141 

contain anything perfect ; but caverns and sand, and im- 
mense quantities of mud and filth, are found in it wherever 
there is earth. Nor are its contents to be by any means 
compared with the beauty of the various particulars in our 
place of abode. But those upper regions of the earth will 
appear to be yet far more excellent than these which we 
inhabit. For, if it is proper to tell you a beautiful fable, 
it is well worth hearing, Simmias, what kind of places 
those are on the upper earth, situated under the heavens. 

And gladly should we hear it, O Socrates, said Sim- 
mias. 

It is reported then, my friend, says he, in the first 
place, that this earth, if any one surveys it from on high, 
appears like those balls which are covered with twelve 
pieces of leather, various, and distinguished with colors ; 
a pattern of which are the colors found among us, and 
which our painters use. But there the whole earth is 
composed from materials of this kind, and such as are 
much more splendid and pure than our region contains : 
for they are partly indeed purple, and endued with a won- 
derful beauty ; partly of a golden color ; and partly more 
white than plaster or snow ; and are composed from other 
colors in a similar manner, and those more in number 
and more beautiful than we have ever beheld. For the 
hollow parts of this pure earth, being filled with water 
and air, exhibit a certain species of color, shining among 
the variety of other colors in such a manner, that from any 
one view the earth is always varicolored. Hence, what- 
ever grows in this earth grows analogous to its nature, 
such as its trees, and flowers, and fruits : and again, its 
mountains and stones possess a similar perfection and 
transparency, and are rendered beautiful through various 



142 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

colors; of which the stones so much honored by us in 
this place of our abode are but small parts, such as sardin- 
stones, jaspers and emeralds, and all of this kind. But 
there nothing subsists which is not of such a nature as I 
have described ; and there are other things far more 
beautiful than even these. But the reason of this is be- 
cause the stones there are pure, and not consumed and 
corrupted, like ours, through rottenness and salt, from a 
conflux of various particulars, which in our places of 
abode cause filthiness and disease to the stones and earth, 
animals and plants, which are found among us. But this 
pure earth is adorned with all these, and with gold and 
silver, and other things of a similar nature : for all these 
are naturally apparent, since they are both numerous 
and large, and are diffused everywhere throughout the 
earth ; so that to behold it is the spectacle of blessed 
spectators. This earth too contains many other animals 
and men, some of whom inhabit its middle parts ; 
others dwell about the air, as we do about the sea ; and 
others reside in islands which the air flows round, and 
which are situated not far from the continent. And in 
one word, what water and the sea are to us, with respect 
to utility, that air is to them : but what air is to us, that 
aether is to the inhabitants of this pure earth. But the 
seasons there are endued with such an excellent tempera- 
ment, that the inhabitants are never molested with dis- 
ease, and live for a much longer time than those who 
dwell in our regions ; and they surpass us in sight, hear- 
ing and wisdom, and everything of this kind, as much as 
air excels water in purity — and aether, air. And besides 
this, they have groves and temples of the gods, in which 
the gods dwell in reality ; and likewise oracles and divina- 



THE PH^.DO. 143 

tions, and sensible perceptions of the gods, and such-like 
associations with them. The sun too, and moon and stars, 
are seen by them such as they really are; and in every 
other respect their felicity is of a correspondent nature. 

And in this manner indeed the whole earth naturally 
subsists, and the parts which are situated about it. But it 
contains about the whole of its ambit many places in its 
concavities ; some of which are more profound and ex- 
tended than the region which we inhabit : but others are 
more profound, indeed, but yet have a less chasm than 
the places of our abode ; and there are certain parts which 
are less profound, but broader than ours. But all these 
are in many places perforated into one another under the 
earth, according to narrower and broader avenues, and 
have passages of communication through which a great 
quantity of water flows into the different hollows of the 
earth, as into bowls ; and besides this, there are immense 
bulks of ever-flowing rivers under the earth, and of hot 
and cold waters ; likewise a great quantity of fire, mighty 
rivers of fire, and many of moist mire, some of which are 
purer, and others more muddy ; as in Sicily there are 
rivers of mud, which flow before a stream of fire, which is 
itself a flaming torrent. And from these the several 
places are filled, into which each flows at particular times. 
But all these are moved upwards and downwards, like 
a swinging or oscillation in the earth. And this is the 
cause of it : There is a chasm in the earth, and this the 
greatest, and totally perforated through the whole earth. 
And of this Homer thus speaks — 

Far, very far, where under earth is found 
A gulf, of every depth, the most profound: ' 
1 Iliad ; book viii, verse 14. 



i 4 4 SELECTIONS FROM PLA TO. 

which he elsewhere and many other poets denominate Tar- 
tarus. For into this chasm there is a conflux of all rivers, 
from which they again flow upwards. But each derives 
its quality from the earth through which it flows. And 
the reason why they all flow into, and again out of this 
chasm, is because this moisture cannot find either a bottom 
or a basis. Hence it swings and seethes upwards and 
downwards: and this, too, is the case with the air and 
wind which are situated about it. For they follow this 
moisture, both when they are impelled to more remote 
places of the earth, and when to the places of our abode. 
And as in respiration the flowing breath is perpetually ex- 
pired and inspired, so there the wind, which is swayed 
about together with the moisture, causes certain vehement 
and immense winds during its ingress and departure. 
When the water, therefore, being impelled, flows into that 
place which we call downwards, then the river flows 
through the earth into different channels, and fills them ; 
just as those who pour into another vessel the water which 
they have drawn. But when this water, departing from 
thence, is impelled hither, it again fills the rivers on the 
earth ; and these, when filled, flow through channels and 
through the earth ; and when they have severally passed 
through the avenues, which are open to each, they produce 
seas, lakes, rivers and fountains. Flowing back again 
from hence under the earth, and some of them streaming 
round longer and more numerous places, but others round 
such as are shorter and less numerous, they again hurl 
themselves into Tartarus ; and some indeed much more 
profoundly, but others less so, than they were drawn ; but 
the influxions of all of them are deeper than the places 
from which they flow upwards, And the effluxions of 



THE PHsEDO. 145 

some are on a side opposite to their influxions, but in 
others both take place on the same side. There are some 
again which entirely flow round in a circle, folding them- 
selves like snakes, once or often about the earth ; and 
tending downwards as much as possible, they again fall 
into the chasm. On every side the rivers can descend to 
the center, but not beyond it, for the part opposite to both 
directions is steep. 

The other rivers, indeed, are many, great and various: 
but among this abundance there are certain streams, four 
in number, of which the greatest, and which circularly 
flows round the earth the outermost of all, is called the 
Ocean. But that which flows opposite, and in a contrary 
direction to this, is Acheron; which, flowing through 
other solitary places, and under the earth, devolves its 
waters into the Acherusian marsh, into which many souls 
of the dead pass ; and abiding there for certain destined 
spaces of time, some of which are more and others less 
extended, they are again sent into the generations of 
animals. The third river of these hurls itself forth in the 
middle, and near its source falls into a mighty place, 
burning with abundance of fire, and produces a lake 
greater than our sea, and hot with water and mud. But it 
proceeds from hence, turbulent and miry, and, encircling 
the earth, arrives both elsewhere and at the extremities of 
the Acherusian marsh, with the water of which it does not 
become mingled ; but often revolving itself under the 
earth, flows into the more downward parts of Tartarus. 
And this is the river which they still denominate Pyriphle- 
gethon ; the streams of which burst up in gushes in vari- 
ous parts of the earth. But the fourth river, which is 
opposite to this, first falls as it is said into a place dreadful 

10 






1 46 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

and wild, and wholly tinged with a gloomy color, which 
they denominate Styx : and the influxive streams of this 
river form the Stygian marsh. But falling into this, and 
receiving vehement powers in its waters, it hides itself 
under the earth, and rolling round, proceeds contrary to 
Pyriphlegethon, and meets with it in the Acherusian 
marsh in a contrary direction. Nor is the water of this 
river mingled with anything, but, revolving in a circle, it 
hurls itself into Tartarus in a course opposite to Pyri- 
phlegethon. But its name, according to the poets, is 
Cocytus. 

These being thus naturally constituted, when the dead 
arrive at that place into which the daemon leads each, in 
the first place they are judged, as well those who have 
lived in a becoming manner, and piously and justly, as 
those who have not. And those who appear to have 
passed a middle kind of life, proceeding to Acheron, and 
ascending the vehicles prepared for them, arrive in these 
at the Acherusian lake, and dwell there ; till being puri- 
fied, and having suffered punishment for any injuries they 
may have committed, they are enlarged ; and each receives 
the reward of his beneficence according to his deserts. 
But those who appear to be incurable, through the magni- 
tude of their offenses, because they have perpetrated either 
many and great sacrileges, or many unjust slaughters, 
and such as are contrary to law, or other things of this 
kind — these, a destiny adapted to their guilt hurls into 
Tartarus, from which they will never be discharged. But 
those who are found to have committed curable, but yet 
mighty crimes, such as those who have been guilty 
through anger of any violence against their father or 
mother, and have lived the remainder of their lives pen;- 



THE PH^DO. 147 

tent for the offense, or who have become homicides in any 
other similar manner ; with respect to these, it is neces- 
sary that they should fall into Tartarus : but after they 
have fallen, and have dwelt there for a year, the waves 
hurl them out of Tartarus ; and the ordinary homicides 
indeed into Cocytus, but the slayers of fathers and mothers 
into Pyriphlegethon. But when, being borne along by 
these rivers, they arrive at the Acherusian marsh, they 
here bellow and invoke those whom they have slaughtered 
or injured. But, invoking these, they suppliantly entreat 
that they would suffer them to enter into the lake, and 
forgive them. And if they persuade them to do this, they 
depart, and find an end to their maladies : but if they are 
unable to accomplish this, they are carried back again 
into Tartarus, and from thence again into the rivers. 
And they do not cease from suffering this, till they have 
persuaded those they have injured to forgiveness. For 
this punishment was ordained them by the judges. But 
those who shall appear to have lived most excellently, 
with respect to piety — these are they, who, being liberated 
and dismissed from these places in the earth, as from the 
abodes of a prison, shall arrive at the pure habitation on 
high, and dwell on the aetherial earth. And among these, 
those who are sufficiently purified by philosophy shall live 
without bodies, through the whole of the succeeding time, 
and shall arrive at habitations yet more beautiful than 
these, which is neither easy to describe, nor is the present 
time sufficient for such an undertaking. 

But for the sake of these particulars which we have 
related, we should undertake everything, Simmias, that 
we may participate of virtue and prudence in the present 
life. For the reward is beautiful, and the hope mighty. 






1 48 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 



To affirm, indeed, that these things subsist exactly as I 
have described them, is not the province of a man endued 
with intellect. But to assert that either these or certain 
particulars of this kind take place, with respect to our 
souls and their habitations — since our soul appears to be 
immortal — this is, I think, both becoming, and deserves 
to be hazarded by him who believes in its reality. For 
the risk is a noble one, and we must allure ourselves with 
things of this kind, as with enchantments : and on this 
account, I produced the fable which you have just now 
heard me relate. But, for the sake of these, it is proper 
that the man should be confident about his soul, who in 
the present life bidding farewell to those pleasures which 
regard the body and its ornaments, as things foreign from 
its nature, has earnestly applied himself to disciplines, as 
things of far greater consequence ; and who having 
adorned his soul not with a foreign but its own proper 
ornament — viz., with temperance and justice, fortitude, 
liberty and truth, expects a migration to Hades, as one 
who is ready to depart whenever he shall be called upon 
by Fate. You, therefore, says he, Simmias and Cebes, 
and the rest who are here assembled, will each depart in 
some period of time posterior to the present ; but 

Me now calling, Fate demands: 

(as some tragic poet would say) and it is almost time that 
I should betake myself to the bath. For it appears to 
me better to wash myself before I drink the poison, and 
not to trouble the women with washing my dead body. 

When, therefore, he had thus spoken,— Be it so, 
Socrates, says Crito : but what orders do you leave to 
these who are present, or to myself, or respecting your 



THE PH^DO. 149 

children, or anything else in the execution of which we 
can particularly oblige you ? 

None such as are new, says he, Crito, but that which 
I have always said to you ; that if you take care of your- 
selves, you will always perform in whatever you do that 
which is acceptable to myself, to my family, and to your 
own selves, though you should not promise me anything 
at present. But if you neglect yourselves, and are 
unwilling to live according to what has been now and 
formerly said, as vestiges of direction in your course, you 
will accomplish nothing, though you should now promise 
many things, and in a very vehement manner. 

We shall take care, therefore, says Crito, to act as you 
desire. But how would you be buried? 

Just as you please, says he, if you can but catch me, 
and I do not escape from you. And at the same time 
gently laughing, and addressing himself to us, I cannot 
persuade Crito, says he, my friends, that I am that 
Socrates who now disputes with you, and orders every part 
of the discourse ; but he thinks that I am he whom he will 
shortly behold dead, and asks how I ought to be buried. 
But all that long discourse which some time since I ad- 
dressed to you, in which I asserted that after I had drunk 
the poison I should no longer remain with you, but should 
depart to certain felicities of the blessed, this I seem to 
have declared to him in vain, though it was undertaken 
to console both you and myself. Promise, therefore, says 
he, for me to Crito, just the contrary of what he promised 
to my judges. For he promised that I should not run 
away ; but do you engage that when I die I shall not stay 
with you, but shall depart and entirely leave you ; that 
Crito may more easily bear this separation, and may not 



1 50 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO. 

be afflicted when he sees my body either burnt or buried, 
as if I suffered some dreadful misfortune ; and that he may 
not say at my interment, that Socrates is laid out, or is 
carried out, or is buried. For be well assured of this, 
says he, excellent Crito, that when we do not speak in a 
becoming manner, we are not only culpable with respect 
to our speech, but likewise affect our souls with a certain 
evil. But it is proper to be confident, and to say that my 
body will be buried, and in such a manner as is pleasing 
to you, and which you think is most agreeable to our 
laws. 

When he had thus spoken he rose, and went into a 
certain room, that he might wash himself, and Crito fol- 
lowed him : but he ordered us to wait for him. We 
waited, therefore, accordingly, discoursing over and re- 
viewing among ourselves what had been said ; and some- 
times speaking about his death, how great a calamity it 
would be to us ; and sincerely thinking that we, like those 
who are deprived of their father, should pass the rest of 
our life in the condition of orphans. But when he had 
washed himself, his sons were brought to him (for he had 
two little ones, and one considerably advanced in age), 
and the women belonging to his family likewise came in 
to him : but when he had spoken to them before Crito, and 
had left them such injunctions as he thought proper, he 
ordered the boys and women to depart ; and he himself 
returned to us. And it was now near the setting of the 
sun : for he had been absent for a long time in the bath- 
ing-room. But when he came in from washing, he sat 
down ; and did not speak much afterwards. For then the 
servant of the eleven magistrates came in, and standing 
near him, I do not perceive that in you, Socrates, says he, 



THE PH^DO. 151 

which I have taken notice of in others; I mean, that 
they are angry with me, and curse me, when, being com- 
pelled by the magistrates, I announce to them that they 
must drink the poison. But, on the contrary, I have 
found you at the present time to be the most generous, 
mild and the best of all the men that ever came into this 
place : and, therefore, I am well convinced that you are 
not angry with me, but with the authors of your present 
condition. You know those whom I allude to. Now, 
therefore (for you know what I came to tell you), farewell, 
and endeavor to bear this necessity as easily as possible. 
And at the same time bursting into tears, and turning 
himself away, he departed. 

But Socrates looking after him, And thou too, says he, 
farewell ; and we shall take care to act as you advise. 
And at the same time turning to us, How courteous, says 
he, is the behavior of that man ! During the whole time 
of my abode here, he has visited and often conversed with 
me, and proved himself to be the best of men ; and now 
how generously he weeps on my account ! But let us 
obey him, Crito, and let some one bring the poison, if it is 
bruised ; but if not, let the man whose business it is bruise 
it himself. 

But, Socrates, says Crito, I think that the sun still 
hangs over the mountains, and is not yet set. And at 
the same time I have known others who have drunk the 
poison very late, after it was announced to them ; who 
have supped and drunk abundantly ; and who have en- 
joyed converse with whomsoever they desire. Therefore, 
do not be in such haste ; for there is yet time enough. 

Upon this Socrates replied, Such men, Crito, act with 
great propriety in the manner you have described (for they 



i 5 2 SELECTIONS FROM PL A TO, 

think to derive some advantage by so doing), and I also 
with great propriety shall not act in this manner. For I 
do not think I shall gain anything by drinking it later, 
except becoming ridiculous to myself through desiring to 
live, and being sparing of life when nothing of it any 
longer remains. Go, then, says he, be persuaded, and 
comply with my request. 

Then Crito, hearing this, gave the sign to the boy that 
stood near him. And the boy departing and having 
stayed for some time, came, bringing with him the person 
that was to administer the poison, and who brought it 
properly prepared in a cup. But Socrates, beholding the 
man — It is well, my friend, says he ; but what is proper 
to do with it ? for you are knowing in these affairs. 

You have nothing else to do, says he, but when you 
have drunk it to walk about, till a heaviness takes place 
in your legs ; and afterwards lie down : this is the manner 
in which yoiTsliould act. And at the same time he ex- 
tended the cup to Socrates. But Socrates received it from 
him — and indeed, Bchecrates, with great cheerfulness ; 
neither trembling, nor suffering any alteration for the 
worse in his color or countenance : but, as he was accus- 
tomed to do, beholding the man with a bull-like aspect, 
What say you, says he, respecting this potion? Is it 
lawful to make a libation of it, or not? 

We only bruise, says he, Socrates, as much as we 
think sufficient for the purpose. 

I understand you, says he: but it is certainly both 
lawful and proper to pray to the gods, that my departure 
from hence thither may be attended with prosperous for- 
tune; which I entreat them to grant may be the case. 
And at the same time ending his discourse, he drank the 



THE PH^EDO. 153 

poison with exceeding facility and alacrity. And thus 
far, indeed, the greater part of us were tolerably well able 
to refrain from weeping ; but when we saw him drinking, 
and that he had drunk it, we could no longer restrain our 
tears. But from me, indeed, notwithstanding the violence 
which I employed in checking them, they flowed abund- 
antly ; so that, covering myself with my mantle, I 
deplored my misfortune. I did not indeed weep for him, 
but for my own fortune ; considering what an associate I 
should be deprived of. But Crito, who was not able to 
restrain his tears, was compelled to rise before me. And 
Apollodorus, who during the whole time prior to this had 
not ceased from weeping, then wept aloud with great bit- 
terness ; so that he infected all who were present, except 
Socrates. But Socrates, upon seeing this, exclaimed — 
What are you doing, excellent men? For, indeed, I 
principally sent away the women, lest they should pro- 
duce a disturbance of this kind. For I have heard that it 
is proper to die joyfully and with propitious omens. Be 
quiet, therefore, and summon fortitude to your assistance. 
When we heard this we blushed, and restrained our 
tears. But he, when he found during his walking that 
his legs felt heavy, and had told us so, laid himself down 
in a supine position. For the man had ordered him to do 
so. And at the same time he who gave him the poison, 
touching him at intervals, considered his feet and legs. 
And after he had vehemently pressed his foot, he asked 
him if he felt it. But Socrates answered he did not. And 
after this he again pressed his thighs : and thus ascending 
with his hand, he showed us that he was cold and stiff. 
And Socrates also touched himself, and said, that when 
the poison reached his heart he should then leave us. 



154 SELECTIONS PROM PL A TO. 

But now his lower belly was almost cold ; when uncover- 
ing his face (for he was covered) , he said (which were his 
last words) : 

Crito, we owe a cock to Asclepius. 1 Discharge this 
debt, therefore for me, and do not neglect it. 

It shall be done, says Crito: but consider whether you 
have any other commands. To this inquiry of Crito he 
made no reply ; but shortly after moved himself, and the 
man uncovered him. And his eyes were fixed; which 
when Crito perceived, he closed his mouth and eyes. 
This, Kchecrates, was the end of our associate ; a man, as 
it appears to me, the best of the men of that time with 
whom we were acquainted, and besides this, the most wise 
and just. 

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